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1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

THE    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID 
BY  GRANT  ALLEN 


BOSTON;   ROBERTS  BROS.,   1895 
LONDON  :  JOHN  LANE,  VIGO  ST 


143124 


C,>/yn\r/,/,   JSU5, 

V,\    KoHKKTS    r.R()Tlli:KS. 
Aii  rights  reseriH-d. 


^Intbrrsitg  ^Drrss: 

John  Wilson  anu  Son,  Cambkiik;!-     l.S.A. 


J 


TO  MY   DEAR   WIFE 

TO   WHOM   I    HAVE   DEDICATED 

MV  TWENTV    HAPPIEST    YEARS 

I   DEDICATE   ALSO 

THIS   BRIEF  MEMORIAL 
OF  A  LESS   FORTUNATE  LOVE 


WRITTEN  AT   PERUGIA 

SPRING    1893 

FOR   THE    FIRST   TIME    IN    MY    LIFE 

WHOLLY   AND    SOLELY  TO    SATISFY 

MY   OWN    TASTE 

AND  MY   OWN   CONSCIENCE 


PREFACE. 

•'  But  surely  no  woman  would  ever  dare  to  do 
so,"  said  my  friend. 

"  I  knew  a  woman  who  did,"  said  I ;  "  and  this 
is  her  story." 


THE    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


I. 


Mrs.  Dewsrury's  lawn  was  held  by  those 
who  knew  it  the  loveliest  in  Surrey.  The 
smooth  and  springy  sward  that  stretched  in 
front  of  the  house  was  all  composed  of  a  tiny 
yellow  clover.  It  gave  beneath  the  foot  like 
the  pile  on  velvet.  One's  gaze  looked  forth 
from  it  upon  the  endless  middle  disi  nces  of 
the  oak-clad  Weald,  with  the  uncert;i  *  blue 
line  of  the  South  Downs  in  the  background. 
Ridge  behind  ridge,  the  long,  low  hills  of  palu- 
dina  limestone  stood  out  in  successive  tiers, 
each  thrown  up  against  its  neighbor  by  the 
misty  haze  that  broods  eternally  over  the 
wooded  valley;  till,  roaming  across  them  all, 
the  eye  rested  at  last  on  the  rearing  scarp  of 
Chanctonbury  Ring,  faintly  pencilled  on  the 
furthest  sky-line.  Shadowy  phantoms  of  dim 
heights  framed  the  verge  to  east  and  west. 
Alan  Merrick  drank  it  in  with  profound  satis- 
faction.    /  fter  thusf-  sharp  and  clear-cut  Italian 


8 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


outlines,  hard  as  lapis  lazuli,  the  mysterious 
vagueness,  the  pregnant  suggestiveress,  of  our 
English  scenery  strikes  the  imagination;  and 
Alan  was  fresh  home  from  an  early  summer 
tour  among  the  Peruginesque  solidities  of  the 
Umbrian  Apennines.  'How  beautiful  it  all  is, 
after  all,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  entertainer. 
"In  Italy  't  is  the  background  the  painter  dwells 
upon;  in  England,  we  look  rather  at  the  middle 
distance." 

Mrs.  Dewsbury  darted  round  her  the  restless 
eye  of  a  hostess,  to  see  upon  whom  she  could 
socially  bestow  him.  "Oh,  come  this  way," 
she  said,  sweeping  across  the  lawn  towards 
a  girl  in  a  blue  dress  at  the  opposite  corner. 
"  You  must  know  our  new-comer.  I  want  to 
introduce  you  to  Miss  Barton,  from  Cambridge. 
She's  such  a  nice  girl  too, — t)ie  Dean  of 
Dunwich's  daughter." 

Alan  Merrick  drew  back  with  a  vague  ges- 
ture of  distaste.  "Oh,  thank  you,"  he  replied; 
"but,  do  you  know,  I  don't  think  I  like  deans, 
Mrs.  Dewsbury." 

Mrs.  Dewsbury's  smile  was  recondite  and 
diplomatic.  "Then  you  '11  exactly  suit  one  an- 
other," she  answered  with  gay  wisdom.  "  For,  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  think  sJie  does  either." 

The  young  man  allowed  himself  to  be  led 
with  a  passive  protest   in  the  direction  where 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


of 


»» 


Mrs.  Dcwsbury  so  impulsively  hurried  him. 
He  heard  that  cultivated  voice  murmuring  in 
the  usual  inaudible  tone  of  introduction,  "Miss 
Barton,  Mr.  Alan  Merrick."  Then  he  raised 
his  hat.  As  he  did  so,  he  looked  down  at 
Herminia  Barton's  face  with  a  sudden  start  of 
surprise.  Why,  this  was  a  girl  of  most  unusual 
beauty ! 

She  was  tall  and  dark,  with  abundant  black 
hair,  richly  waved  above  the  ample  forehead; 
and  she  wore  a  curious  Oriental-looking  navy- 
blue  robe  of  some  soft  woollen  stuff,  that  fell 
in  natural  folds  and  set  off  to  the  utmost  the 
lissome  grace  of  her  rounded  figure.  It  was 
a  sort  of  sleeveless  sack,  embroidered  in  front 
with  arabesques  in  gold  thread,  and  fastened 
obliquely  two  inches  below  the  waist  with  a 
belt  of  gilt  braid,  and  a  clasp  of  Moorish  jewel- 
work.  Beneath  it,  a  bodice  of  darker  silk 
showed  at  the  arms  and  neck,  with  loose  sleeves 
in  keeping.  The  whole  costume,  though  quite 
simple  in  style,  a  compromise  either  for  after- 
noon or  evening,  was  charming  in  its  novelty, 
charming  too  in  the  way  it  permitted  the  utmost 
liberty  and  variety  of  movement  to  the  lithe 
limbs  of  its  wearer.  But  it  was  her  face  par- 
ticularly that  struck  Alan  Merrick  at  first  sight. 
That  face  was  above  all  things  the  face  of  a  free 
woman.      Something  so  frank  and  fearless  shone 


lO 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


in  Herminia's  glance,  as  her  eye  met  his,  that 
Alan,  who  respected  human  freedom  above  all 
other  qualities  in  man  or  womon,  was  taken  on 
the  spot  by  its  perfect  air  of  untrammelled 
liberty.  Yet  it  was  subtle  and  beautiful  too, 
undeniably  beautiful.  Herminia  Barton's  fea- 
tures, I  think,  were  even  more  striking  in  their 
way  in  later  life,  when  sorrow  had  stamped  her, 
and  the  mark  of  her  willing  martyrdom  for 
humanity's  sake  was  deeply  printed  upon  them. 
But  their  beauty  then  was  the  beauty  of  holiness, 
which  not  all  can  appreciate.  In  her  younger 
days,  as  Alan  Merrick  first  saw  her,  she  was 
beautiful  still  with  the  first  i^.ush  of  health  and 
strength  and  womanhood  in  a  free  and  vigorous 
English  girl's  body.  A  certain  lofty  serenity, 
not  untouched  with  pathos,  seemed  to  strike 
thf^  keynote.  But  that  was  not  all.  Some  hint 
of  every  element  in  the  highest  loveliness  met 
in  that  face  and  form, — physical,  intellectual, 
emotional,  moral. 

"You  '11  like  him,  Herminia,"  Mrs.  Dewsbury 
said,  nodding.  "  He  's  one  of  your  own  kind,  as 
dreadful  as  you  are;  very  free  and  advanced; 
a  perfect  firebrand.  In  fact,  my  dear  child,  I 
don't  know  which  of  you  makes  my  hair  stand 
on  end  most."  And  with  that  introductory 
hint,  she  left  the  pair  forthwith  to  their  own 
devices. 


THE  WOxMAN  WHO  DID. 


II 


Mrs.  Dewsbury  was  right.  It  took  those  two 
but  little  time  to  feel  quite  at  home  with  one 
another.  Built  of  similar  mould,  each  seemed 
instinctively  to  grasp  what  each  was  aiming  at. 
Two  or  three  turns  pacing  up  and  down  the 
lawn,  two  or  three  steps  along  the  box-covered 
path  at  the  side,  and  they  read  one  another  per- 
fectly. For  he  was  true  man,  and  she  was  real 
woman. 

"Then  you  were  at  Girton?"  Alan  asked,  as 
he  paused  with  one  hand  on  the  rustic  seat  that 
looks  up  towards  Leith  Hill,  and  the  heather- 
clad  moorland. 

"Yes,  at  Girton,"  Herminia  answered,  sink- 
ing easily  upon  the  bench,  and  letting  one  arm 
rest  on  the  back  in  a  graceful  attitude  of 
unstudied  attention.  "But  I  didn't  take  my 
degree,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  as  one  who  is 
anxious  to  disclaim  some  too  great  honor  thrust 
upon  her.  "  I  did  n't  care  for  the  life ;  I  thought 
it  cramping.  You  see,  if  we  women  are  ever  to 
be  free  in  the  world,  we  must  have  in  the  end 
a  freeman's  education.  But  the  education  at 
Girton  made  only  a  pretence  at  freedom.  At 
heart,  our  girls  were  as  enslaved  to  conventions 
as  any  girls  elsewhere.  The  whole  object  of 
the  training  was  to  see  just  how  far  you  could 
manage  to  push  a  woman's  education  without 
the  faintest  danger  of  her  emancipation." 


12 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


"You  are  right,"  Alan  answered  briskly,  for 
the  point  was  a  pet  one  with  him.  "I  was  an 
Oxford  man  myself,  and  I  know  that  servitude. 
When  I  go  up  to  Oxford  now  and  see  the  girls 
who  are  being  ground  in  the  mill  at  Somer- 
ville,  I  'm  heartily  sorry  for  them.  It 's  worse 
for  them  than  for  us;  they  miss  the  only  part 
of  university  life  that  has  educational  value. 
When  we  men  were  undergraduates,  we  lived 
our  whole  lives,  —  lived  them  all  round,  devel- 
oping equally  every  fibre  of  our  natures.  We 
read  Plato,  and  Aristotle,  and  John  Stuart  Mill, 
to  be  sure,  —  and  I  'm  not  quite  certain  we  got 
much  good  from  them ;  but  then  our  talk  and 
thought  were  not  all  of  books,  and  of  what  we 
spelt  out  in  them.  We  rowed  on  the  river,  we 
played  in  the  cricket-field,  we  lounged  in  the 
billiard-rooms,  we  ran  up  to  town  for  the  day, 
we  had  wine  in  one  another's  rooms  after  hall 
in  the  evening,  and  behaved  like  young  fools, 
and  threw  oranges  wildly  at  one  another's 
heads,  and  generally  enjoyed  ourselves.  It  was 
all  very  silly  and  irrational,  no  doubt,  but  it 
was  life,  it  was  reality;  while  the  pretended 
earnestness  of  those  pallid  Somerville  girls  is 
all  an  affectation  of  one-sided  culture." 

"That 's  just  it,"  Herminia  answered,  leaning 
back  on  the  rustic  seat  like  David's  Madame 
R^carnier.      "You  put  your  finger  on  the  real 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


'3 


■ 


<  • 


I 


1 


blot  when  you  said  those  words,  developing 
equally  every  fibre  of  your  natures.  That's 
what  nobody  yet  wants  us  women  to  do. 
They  're  trying  hard  enough  to  develop  us 
intellectually;  but  morally  and  socially  they 
want  to  mew  us  up  just  as  close  as  ever.  And 
they  won't  succeed.  The  zenana  must  go. 
Sooner  or  later,  I  'm  sure,  if  you  begin  by  edu- 
cating women,  you  must  end  by  emancipating 
them."  7^ 

"So  I  think  too,"  Alan  answered,  growing 
every  moment  more  interested.  "And  for  my 
part,  it 's  the  emancipation,  not  the  mere  edu- 
cation, that  most  appeals  to  me." 

"Yes,  I  've  always  felt  that,"  Hcrminia  went 
on,  letting  herself  out  more  freely,  for  she  felt 
she  was  face  to  face  with  a  sympathetic  listener. 
"And  for  that  reason,  it 's  the  question  of  social 
and  moral  emancipation  that  interests  me  far 
more  than  the  mere  political  one, — woman's 
rights  as  they  call  it.  Of  course  I  'm  a  mem- 
ber of  all  the  woman's  franchise  leagues  and 
everything  of  that  sort, —  they  can't  afford  to  do 
without  a  single  friend's  name  on  their  lists  at 
present ;  but  the  vote  is  a  matter  that  troubles 
me  little  in  itself,  what  I  want  is  to  see  women 
made  fit  to  use  it.  After  all,  political  life  fills 
but  a  small  and  unimportant  part  in  our  total 
existence.     It 's  the  perpetual  pressure  of  social 


14 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


h! 


11 


■'it 


and  ethical  restrictions  that  most  weighs  down 
women." 

Alan  paused  and  looked  hard  at  her.  "  And 
they  tell  me,"  he  said  in  a  slow  voice,  "you  're 
the  Dean  of  Dunwich's  daughter' " 

Herminia  laughed  lightly,  —  a  ringing  girlish 
laugh.  Alan  noticed  it  with  pleasure.  He  felt 
at  once  that  the  iron  of  Girton  had  not  entered 
into  her  soul,  as  into  so  many  of  our  modern 
young  women's.  There  was  vitality  enough  left 
in  her  for  a  genuine  laugh  of  innocent  amuse- 
ment. "Oh  yes,"  she  said,  merrily;  "that's 
what  I  always  answer  to  all  possible  objectors 
to  my  ways  and  idea^.  I  reply  with  dignity, 
*  /was  brought  up  in  the  family  or  a  clergyman 
of  the  Church  of  England. '  " 

"  And  what  does  the  Dean  say  to  your 
views.-*"  Alan  interposed  doubtfully. 

Herminia  laughed  again.  If  her  eyes  were 
profound,  two  dimples  saved  her.  "  I  thought 
you  were  with  us,  "she  answered  with  a  twinkle; 
"now,  I  begin  to  doubt  it.  You  don't  expect  a 
man  of  twenty-two  to  be  governed  in  all  tnings, 
especially  in  the  formation  of  his  abstract 
ideas,  by  his  father's  opinions.  Why  then  a 
woman }  " 

"Why,  indeed.''"  Alan  answered.  "There  I 
quite  agree  with  you.  I  was  thinking  not  so 
much  of  what  is  right  and  reasonable  as  of  what 


V 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID,  15 

is  practical  and  usual.  For  most  women  of 
course,  are -well,  more  or  less  dependent  upon 
their  fathers. " 

"But   I  am   not,"  Herminia  answered,    with 
a  faint  suspicion  of  just  pride  in  the  undercur- 
rent  of  her  tone.     "That  's  in  part  why  I  went 
away  so  soon  from  Girton.     I  felt  that  if  women 
are  ever  to  be  free,  they  must  first  of  all   be 
independent.     It   is  the  dependence  of  women 
that  has  allowed  men  to  make  laws  for  them 
socially  and  ethically.     So  I  wouldn't  stop  a[ 
Girton,  partly  because  I  felt  the  life  was  one- 
sided,- our  girls  thought  and  talked  of  nothing 
else  on  earth  except   Herodotus,  trigonometry" 
and  the  higher   culture, -but   partly  also    be- 
cause I  wouldn't   be  dependent   on   any  man 
not  even  my  own  father.     It   left  me  freer  to 
act  and  think  as  I  would.     So  I  threw  Girton 
overboard,  and  came  up  to  live  in  London." 

"I  see,"  Alan  replied.  "You  wouldn't  let 
your  schooling  interfere  with  your  education. 
And  now  you  support  yourself.?"  he  went  on 
quite  frankly. 

Herminia  nodded  assent. 

"  Ves,  I  support  myself,"  she  answered;  "in 
part  by  teaching  at  a  high  school  for  girls,  and 
in  part  by  doing  a  little  hack-work  for  news- 
papers. " 

"Then  you  're  just  down  here  for  your  holi- 


i6 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


h 


days,    I   suppose?"    Alan  put   in,    leaning  for- 
ward. 

"Yes,  just  down  here  for  my  holidays.  I  've 
lodgings  on  the  Holmwood,  in  such  a  dear  old 
thatched  cottage;  roses  peep  in  at  the  porch, 
and  birds  sing  on  the  bushes.  After  a  term  in 
London,  it  's  a  delicious  change  for  one." 

"But  are  you  alone .^"  Alan  interposed  again, 
still  half  hesitating. 

Herminia  smiled  once  more;  his  surprise 
amused  her.  "  Yes,  quite  alone,"  she  answered. 
"But  if  you  seem  so  astonished  at  that,  I  shall 
believe  you  and  Mrs.  Dewsbury  have  been  try- 
ing to  take  me  in,  and  that  you  're  not  really 
with  us.  Why  shouldn't  a  woman  come  down 
alone  to  pretty  lodgings  in  the  country.^  " 

"Why  not,  indeed.-*"  Alan  echoed  in  turn. 
"It's  not  at  all  that  I  disapprove.  Miss  Bar- 
ton; on  the  contrary,  I  admire  it;  it 's  only  that 
one  's  surprised  to  find  a  woman,  or  for  the 
matter  of  that  anybody,  acting  up  to  his  or  her 
convictions.  That's  what  I  've  always  felt; 
*t  is  the  Nemesis  of  reason;  if  people  begin  by 
thinking  rationally,  the  danger  is  that  they 
may  end  by  acting  rationally  also." 

Herminia  laughed.  "I'm  afraid,"  she  an- 
swered, "  I  've  already  reached  that  pass. 
You  '11  never  find  me  hesitate  to  do  anything 
on  earth,  once  I  'm  convinced  it 's  right,  merely 


THE  WOMAN   WHO  DID. 


17 


because  other  people  think  differently  on  the 
subject." 

Alan  looked  at  her  and  mused.  She  was  tall 
and  stately,  but  her  figure  was  well  developed, 
and  her  form  softly  moulded.  He  admired  her 
immensely.  How  incongruous  an  outcome  from 
a  clerical  family!  "It 's  curious,"  he  said,  gaz- 
ing hard  at  her,  "that  vou  should  be  a  dean's 
daughter." 

"On  the  contrary,"  Herminia  answered,  with 
perfect  frankness,  "  I  regard  myself  as  a  living 
proof  of  the  doctrine  of  heredity." 

"How  so .^"  Alan  inquired. 

"Well,  my  father  was  a  Senior  Wrangler," 
Herminia  replied,  blushing  faintly;  "and  I  sup- 
pose that  implies  a  certain  moderate  develop- 
ment of  the  logical  faculties.  In  his  generation, 
people  didn't  apply  the  logical  faculties  to  the 
grounds  of  belief;  they  took  those  for  granted; 
but  within  his  own  limits,  my  father  is  still  an 
acute  reasoner.  And  then  he  had  always  the 
ethical  and  social  interests.  Those  two  things 
—  a  love  of  logic,  and  a  love  of  right  —  are 
the  forces  that  tend  to  make  us  what  we  call 
religicfus.  Worldly  people  don't  care  for  fun- 
damental questions  of  the  universe  at  all ;  they 
accept  passively  whatever  is  told  them;  they 
think  they  think,  and  believe  they  believe  it. 
But   people  with   an    interest    in  fundamental 


Ji 


i 


i8 


THE  WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


truth  inquire  for  themselves  into  the  constitu- 
tion of  the  cosmos;  if  they  are  convinced  one 
way,  they  become  what  we  call  theologians;  if 
they  are  convinced  the  other  way,  they  become 
what  we  call  free-thinkers.  Interest  in  the 
problem  is  common  to  both ;  it  's  the  nature 
of  the  solution  alone  that  differs  in  the  two 
cases." 

"That's  quite  true,"  Alan  assented.  "And 
have  you  ever  noticed  this  curious  corollary, 
that  you  and  I  can  talk  far  more  sympathetically 
with  an  earnest  Catholic,  for  example,  or  an 
earnest  Evangelical,  than  we  can  talk  with  a 
mere  ordinary  worldly  person." 

"Oh  dear,  yes,"  Herminia  answered  with 
conviction.  "Thought  will  always  sympathize 
with  thought.  It  's  the  unthinking  mass  one 
can  get  no  further  with." 

Alan  changed  the  subject  abruptly.  This 
girl  so  interested  him.  She  was  the  girl  he 
had  imagined,  the  girl  he  had  dreamt  of,  the 
girl  he  had  thought  possible,  but  never  yet  met 
with.  "And  you're  in  lodgings  on  the  Holm- 
wood  here.^  "  he  said,  ir.using.  "  For  how  much 
longer.?" 

"For  six  weeks,  I  'm  glad  to  say,"  Herminia 
answered,  rising. 

"  At  what  cottage  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Burke's,  — not  far  from  the  station." 


f 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


19 


! 


"  May  I  come  to  see  you  there?  " 

Hcrniinia's  clear  brown  eyes  gazed  down 
at  him,  all  puzzlement.  "Why,  surely"  she 
answered;  "I  shall  be  deli-hted  to  see  you  " 
She  paused  for  a  second.  "  We  agree  about  so 
many  things,"  she  went  on;  "and  it's  so  rare 
to  find  a  man  who  can  sympathize  with  the 
higher  longings  in  women." 

''When  are  you  likeliest  to  be  at   home?" 
Alan  asked. 

''In  the  morning,  after  breakfast,  —  that  is 
at  eight  o'clock,"  Herminia  answered,  smilin./- 
or  later,  after  lunch,  say  two  or  thereabouts. ''^' 
Six  weeks,"  Alan  repeated,  more  to  himself 
than  to  her.  Those  six  week  were  precious. 
Not  a  moment  of  them  must  be  lost.  "Then 
I  think,"  he  went  on  quietly,  "I  shall  call  to- 
morrow. " 

A  wave  of  conscious  pleasure  broke  over  Her- 
minia's  cheek,  blush  rose  on  white  lily;  but  she 
answered  nothing.  She  was  glad  this  kindred 
suiil  should  seem  in  such  a  hurry  to  renew  her 
acqua' stance. 


»f 


20 


THi:  WOMAN    WHO   DID. 


II. 


Next  afternoon,  about  two  o'clock,  Alan  called 
with  a  tremulous  heart  at  the  cottage.  Her- 
minia  had  heard  not  a  little  of  him  meanwhile 
from  her  friend  Mrs.  Dewsbury.  "He's  a 
charming  young  man,  my  dear,"  the  woman 
of  the  world  observed  with  confidence.  "  I  felt 
quite  sure  you  d  attract  one  another.  He  's  so 
clever  and  advanced,  and  everything  that  's 
dreadful, — just  like  yourself,  Herminia.  But 
then  he  's  also  very  well  connected.  That 's 
always  something,  especially  when  one  's  an 
oddity.  You  would  n't  go  down  one  bit  your- 
self, dear,  if  you  weren't  a  dean's  daughter. 
The  shadow  of  a  cathedral  steeple  covers  a  mul- 
titude of  sins.  Mr.  Merrick  's  the  son  of  the 
famous  London  gout  doctor,  —  you  must  know 
his  name,  —  all  the  royal  dukes  flock  to  him. 
He  's  a  barrister  himself,  and  in  excellent  prac- 
tice. You  might  do  worse,  do  you  know,  than 
to  go  in  for  Alan  Merrick." 

Herminia's   lip  curled  an  almost    impercep- 
tible curl  as  she   answered   gravely,   "I  don't 


THE   WCJMAN   WHO    DID. 


21 


lUl- 

thc 

mow 

im. 
irac- 
Ihan 

:ep- 
m't 


i 


think  you  quite  understand  my  plans  in  life, 
Mrs.  Dewsbury.  It  is  n't  my  present  intention 
to  ^ifo  in  for  anybody. " 

]iut  Mrs.  Dewsbury  shook  her  head.  She 
knew  the  world  she  lived  in.  "Ah,  I  'vc  heanl 
a  great  many  girls  talk  like  that  beforehaml," 
she  answered  at  once  with  her  society  glibness; 
"but  when  the  right  man  turned  up,  they  soon 
forgot  their  protestations.  It  makes  a  lot  of 
difference,  dear,  when  a  man  really  asks  you!  " 

Herminia  bent  her  head.  "You  misunder- 
stand me,"  she  replied.  "I  don't  mean  to  say 
I  will  never  fall  in  love.  I  expect  to  do  that. 
I  look  forward  to  it  frankly,  — it  is  a  woman's 
place  in  life.  I  only  mean  to  say,  I  don't 
think  anything  will  ever  induce  me  to  marry, — 
that  is  to  say,  legally." 

Mrs.  Dewsbury  gave  a  start  of  surprise  and 
horror.  She  really  did  n't  know  what  girls 
were  coming  to  nowadays, —  which,  considering 
her  first  principles,  was  certainly  natural.  But 
if  only  she  had  seen  the  conscious  flush  with 
which  Herminia  received  her  visitor  that  after- 
noon, she  would  have  been  confirmed  in  her 
belief  that  Herminia,  after  all,  in  spite  of  her 
learning,  was  much  like  other  girls.  In  which 
conclusion  Mrs.  Dewsbury  would  not  in  the  end 
have  been  fully  justified. 

When  Alan  arrived,  Herminia  sat  at  the  win- 


n 


22 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DH). 


dow  by  the  quaintly  clipped  box-tree,  a  volume 
of  verse  held  half  closed  in  her  hand,  thoii<;h 
she  was  a  great  deal  too  honest  and  transparent 
to  pretend  she  was  reading  it.  She  expected 
Alan  to  call,  in  accordance  with  his  promise, 
for  she  had  seen  at  Mrs.  Dewsbury's  how  great 
an  impression  she  produced  upon  him;  and, 
having  taught  herself  that  it  was  every  true 
woman's  duty  to  avoid  the  affectations  and  self- 
deceptions  which  the  rule  of  man  has  begotten 
in  women,  she  did  n't  try  to  conceal  from  her- 
self the  fact  that  she  on  her  side  was  by  no 
means  without  interest  in  the  question  how 
soon  he  would  pay  her  his  promised  visit.  As 
he  appeared  at  the  rustic  gate  in  the  privet 
hedge,  Herminia  looked  out,  and  changed  color 
with  pleasure  ^vhen  she  saw  him  push  it  open. 

"  Oh,  how  nice  of  you  to  look  me  up  so  soon  !  " 
she  cried,  jumping  from  her  seat  (with  just  a 
glance  at  the  glass)  and  strolling  out  bare- 
headed into  the  cottage  garden.  **  Is  n't  this  a 
charming  place .^  Only  look  at  our  hollyhocks! 
Consider  what  an  oasis  after  six  months  of 
London ! " 

She  seemed  even  prettier  than  last  night,  in 
her  simple  white  morning  dress,  a  mere  ordi- 
nary English  gown,  without  affectation  of  any 
sort,  yet  touched  with  some  faint  reminiscence 
of   a  flowing   Greek  chiton.      Its   half-classical 


n 
it 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


23 


?  " 


in 

xli- 

my 

ice 

|c:il 


4 


i 


drapery  exactly  suited  the  severe  regularity  of 
her  pensive  features  and  her  graceful  figure. 
Alan  thought  as  he  looked  at  her  he  had  never 
before  seen  anybody  who  appeared  at  all  points 
so  nearly  to  approach  his  ideal  of  womanhood. 
She  was  at  once  so  high  in  type,  so  serene,  so 
tranquil,  and  yet  so  purely  womanly. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  lovely  place,"  he  answered, 
looking  around  at  the  clematis  that  drooped 
from  the  gable-ends.  "I'm  staying  myself 
with  the  Watertons  at  the  Park,  but  1  'd  rather 
have  this  pretty  little  rose-bowered  garden  than 
all  their  balustrades  and  Italian  terraces.  The 
cottagers  have  chosen  the  better  part.  What 
gillyflowers  and  what  columbines!  And  here 
you  look  out  so  directly  on  the  common.  I 
love  the  gorse  and  the  bracken,  I  love  the 
stagnant  pond,  I  love  the  very  geese  that  tug 
hard  at  the  silverweed,  they  make  it  all  seem 
so  deliciously  English." 

"Shall  we  walk  to  the  ridge.-*"  Herminia 
asked  with  a  sudden  burst  of  suggestion.  "It  's 
too  rare  a  day  to  waste  a  minute  of  it  indoors. 
I  was  waiting  till  you  came.  We  can  talk  all 
the  freer  for  the  fresh  air  on  the  hill-top." 

Nothing  could  have  suited  Alan  Merrick 
better,  and  he  said  so  at  once.  Herminia  dis- 
appeared for  a  moment  to  get  her  hat.  Alan 
observed  almost  without  observing  it  that  she 


24 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


was  gone  but  for  a  second.  She  asked  none  of 
that  long  interval  that  most  women  require  for 
the  simplest  matter  of  toilet.  She  was  back 
again  almost  instantly,  bright  and  fresh  and 
smiling,  in  the  most  modest  of  hats,  set  so  art- 
lessly on  her  head  that  it  became  her  better 
than  all  art  could  have  made  it.  Then  they 
started  for  a  long  stroll  across  the  breezy  com- 
mon, yellow  in  places  with  upright  spikes  of 
small  summer  furze,  and  pink  with  wild  pea- 
blossom.  Bees  buzzed,  broom  crackled,  the 
chirp  of  the  field-cricket  rang  shrill  from  the 
sand-banks.  Herminia's  light  foot  tripped  over 
the  spongy  turf.  By  the  top  of  the  furthest 
ridge,  looking  down  on  North  Holmwood 
church,  they  sat  side  by  side  for  a  while  on 
the  close  short  grass,  brocaded  with  daisies,  and 
gazed  across  at  the  cropped  sward  of  Denbies 
and  the  long  line  of  the  North  Downs  stretching 
away  towards  Reigate.  Tender  grays  and  greens 
melted  into  one  another  on  the  larches  hard  by; 
Betchworth  chalkpit  gleamed  dreamy  white  in 
the  middle  distance.  They  had  been  talking 
earnestly  all  the  way,  like  two  old  friends 
together;  for  they  were  both  of  them  young, 
and  they  felt  at  once  that  nameless  bond  which 
often  draws  one  closer  to  a  new  acquaintance 
at  first  sight  than  years  of  converse.  "How 
seriously  you  look  at  life,"  Alan  cried  at  last, 


'M 


THE  WOMAN   WHO  DTD. 


25 


in  answer  to  one  of  Herminia's  graver  thoughts. 
"  I  wonder  what  makes  you  take  it  so  much 
more  earnestly  than  all  other  women?" 

"  It  came  to  me  all  at  once  when  I  was  about 
sixteen,"  Herminia  answered  with  quiet  com- 
posure, like  one  who  remarks  upon  some  objec- 
tive fact  of  exernal  nature.  "  It  came  to  me  in 
listening  to  a  sermon  of  my  father's,  — which  I 
always  look  upon  as  one  more  instance  of  the 
force  of  heredity.  He  was  preaching  on  the 
text,  '  The  Truth  shall  make  you  Free,*  and  all 
that  he  said  about  it  seemed  to  me  strangely 
alive,  to  be  heard  from  a  pulpit.  He  said  we 
ought  to  seek  the  Truth  before  all  things,  and 
never  to  rest  till  we  felt  sure  we  had  fcund  it. 
We  should  not  suffer  our  souls  to  be  beguiled 
into  believing  a  falsehood  merely  because  we 
wouldn't  take  the  trouble  to  find  out  the  Truth 
for  ourselves  by  searching.  We  must  dig  for 
it ;  we  must  grope  after  it.  And  as  he  spoke, 
I  made  up  my  mind,  in  a  flash  of  resolution, 
to  find  out  the  Truth  for  myself  about  every- 
thing, and  never  to  be  deterred  from  seeking  it, 
and  embracing  it,  and  ensuing  it  when  found, 
by  any  convention  or  preconception.  ::.  Then  he 
went  on  to  say  how  the  Truth  would  make  us 
Free,  and  I  felt  he  was  right.  It  would  open 
our  eyes,  and  emancipate  us  from  social  and 
moral  slaveries.     So  I  made  up  my  mind,  at  the 


26 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


same  time,  that  whenever  I  found  the  Truth 
I  would  not  scruple  to  follow  it  to  its  logical 
conclusions,  but  would  practise  it  in  my  life, 
and  let  it  make  me  Free  with  perfect  freedom. 
Then,  in  search  of  Truth,  I  got  my  father  to 
send  me  to  Girton;  and  when  I  had  lighted 
on  it  there  half  by  accident,  and  it  had  made  me 
Free  indeed,  I  went  away  from  Girton  again, 
because  I  saw  if  I  stopped  there  I  could  never 
achieve  and  guard  my  freedom.  From  that 
day  forth  I  have  aimed  at  nothing  but  to  know 
the  Truth,  and  to  act  upon  it  freely;  for,  as 
Tennyson  says,  — 


■i 


'  To  live  by  law 
Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear, 
And  because  right  is  right  to  follow  right, 
Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  consequence.'  " 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  and  looking  up,  let 
her  eye  rest  for  a  second  on  the  dark  thread  of 
clambering  pines  that  crest  the  down  just  above 
Brockham.  ''This  is  dreadfully  egotistical," 
she  cried,  with  a  sharp  little  start.  *'  I  ought 
to  apologize  for  talking  so  much  to  you  about 
my  own  filings." 

Alan  gazed  at  her  and  smiled.  "Why  apol- 
ogize," he  asked,  "for  managing  to  be  interest- 
ing.^ You  are  not  egotistical  at  all.  What  you 
are  telling  me  is  history, —  the  history  of  a  soul, 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


27 


i 


which  is  always  the  one  thing  on  earth  worth 
hearing.  I  take  it  as  a  compliment  that  you 
should  hold  me  worthy  to  hear  it.  It  is  a  proof 
of  confidence.  Besides,"  he  went  on,  after  a 
second's  pause,  "  I  am  a  man ;  you  are  a  woman. 
Under  those  circumstances,  what  would  other- 
wise be  egotism  becomes  common  and  mutual. 
When  two  people  sympathize  with  one  another, 
all  they  can  say  about  themselves  loses  its  per- 
sonal tinge  and  merges  into  pure  human  and 
abstract  interest." 

Herminia  brought  back  her  eyes  from  infinity 
to  his  face..  "That's  true,"  she  said  frankly. 
"The  magic  link  of  sex  that  severs  and  unites 
us  makes  all  the  difference.  And,  indeed,  I 
confess  I  would  n't  so  have  spoken  of  my 
inmost  feelings  to  another  woman." 


»> 


28 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


III. 


From  that  day  forth,  Alan  and  Herminia  met 
frequently.  Alan  was  given  to  sketching,  and 
he  sketched  a  great  deal  in  his  idle  times  on 
the  common.  He  translated  the  cottages  from 
real  estate  into  poetry.  On  such  occasions, 
Herminia's  walks  often  led  her  in  the  same 
direction.  For  Herminia  was  frank;  she  liked 
the  young  man,  and,  the  truth  having  made 
her  free,  she  knew  no  reason  why  she  should 
avoid  or  pretend  to  avoid  his  company.  She 
had  no  fear  of  that  sordid  impersonal  goddess 
who  rules  Philistia;  it  mattered  not  to  her  what 
"people  said,"  or  whether  or  not  they  said  any- 
thing about  her.  "Aiunt:  quid  aiunt.?  aiant," 
was  her  motto.  Could  she  have  known  to  a 
certainty  that  her  meetings  on  the  common 
with  Alan  Merrick  had  excited  unfavorable 
comment  among  the  old  ladies  of  Holm  wood, 
the  point  would  have  seemed  to  her  unworthy 
of  an  emancipated  soul's  consideration.  She 
could  estimate  at  its  true  worth  the  value  of 
all  human  criticism  upon  human  action. 


I 


ft 


I 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


29 


So,  day  after  clay,  she  met  Alan  Merrick,  half 
by  accident,  half  by  design,  on  the  slopes  of 
the  Holmvvood.  They  talked  much  together, 
for  Alan  liked  her  and  understood  her.  His 
heart  went  out  to  her.  Compact  of  like  clay, 
he  knew  the  meaning  of  her  hopes  and  aspira- 
tions. Often  as  he  sketched  he  would  look  up 
and  wait,  expecting  to  catch  the  faint  sound  of 
her  light  step,  or  see  her  lithe  figure  poised 
breezy  against  the  sky  on  the  neighboring 
ridges.  Whenever  she  drew  near,  his  pulse 
thrilled  at  her  coming,  — a  somewhat  unusual 
experience  with  Alan  Merrick.  For  Alan, 
though  a  pure  soul  in  his  way,  and  mixed  of 
the  finer  paste,  was  not  quite  like  those  best  of 
men,  who  are,  so  to  speak,  born  married.  A 
man  with  an  innate  genius  for  loving  and  being 
loved  cannot  long  remain  single.  He  must 
marry  young ;  or  at  least,  if  he  does  not  marry, 
he  must  find  a  companion,  a  woman  to  his 
heart,  a  help  that  is  meet  for  him.  What  is 
commonly  called  prudence  in  such  concerns  is 
only  another  name  for  vice  and  cruelty.  The 
purest  and  best  of  men  necessarily  mate  them- 
selves before  they  are  twenty.  As  a  rule,  it 
is  the  selfish,  the  mean,  the  calculating,  who 
wait,  as  they  say,  "till  they  can  afford  to 
marry."  That  vile  phrase  scarcely  veils  hidden 
depths  of  depravity.     A  man  who   is  really  a 


30 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


\ 


man,  and  who  has  a  genius  for  loving,  must 
love  from  the  very  first,  and  must  feel  himself 
surrounded  l)y  those  who  love  him.  'Tis  the 
first  necessity  of  life  to  him;  bread,  meat,  rai- 
ment, a  house,  an  income,  rank  far  second  to 
that  prime  want  in  the  good  man's  economy. 

But  Alan  Merrick,  though  an  excellent  fellow 
in  his  way,  and  of  noble  fibre,  was  not  quite 
one  of  the  first,  the  picked  souls  of  humanity. 
He  did  not  count  among  the  finger-posts  who 
point  the  way  that  mankind  will  travel.  Though 
Herminia  always  thought  him  so.  That  was 
her  true  woman's  gift  of  the  highest  idealizing 
power.  Indeed,  it  adds,  to  my  mind,  to  the 
tragedy  of  Herminia  Barton's  life  that  the  man 
for  whom  she  risked  and  lost  everything  was 
never  quite  worthy  of  her;  and  that  Herminia 
to  the  end  not  once  suspected  it.  Alan  was 
over  thirty,  and  was  still  "looking  about  him." 
That  alone,  you  will  admit,  is  a  sufficiently 
grave  condemnation.  That  a  man  should  have 
arrived  at  the  ripe  age  of  thirty  and  not  yet  have 
lighted  upon  the  elect  lady  —  the  woman  with- 
out whose  companionship  life  would  be  to  him 
unendurable  is  in  itself  a  strong  proof  of  much 
underlying  selfishness,  or,  what  comes  to  the 
same  thing,  of  a  calculating  disposition.  The 
right  sort  of  man  does  n't  argue  with  himself 
at  all  on  these  matters.      He  does  n't  say  with 


I 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DHJ. 


31 


selfish  coldness,  "I  can't  afford  a  wife;"  or, 
•'If  I  marry  now,  I  shall  ruin  my  prospects." 
He  feels  and  acts.  He  mates,  like  the  birds, 
because  he  can't  help  himself.  A  woman  crosses 
his  path  who  is  to  him  indispensable,  a  part  of 
himself,  the  needful  complement  of  his  own  per- 
sonality ;  and  without  heed  or  hesitation  he  takes 
her  to  himself,  lawfully  or  unlawfully,  because  he 
has  need  of  her.  That  is  how  nature  has  made 
us ;  that  is  how  every  man  worthy  of  the  name 
of  man  has  always  felt,  and  thought,  and  acted. 
The  worst  of  all  possible  and  conceivable  checks 
upon  population  is  the  vile  one  which  Malthus 
glossed  over  as  "the  prudential,"  and  which  con- 
sists in  substituting  prostitution  for  marriage 
chrough  the  spring-tide  of  one's  manhood. 

Alan  Merrick,  however,  was  over  thirty  and 
still  unmarried.  More  than  that,  he  was  heart- 
free,  —  a  very  evil  record.  And,  like  most  other 
unmarried  men  of  thirty,  he  was  a  trifle  fas- 
tidious. He  was '•  looking  about  him."  That 
means  to  say,  he  was  waiting  to  find  some 
woman  who  suited  him.  No  man  does  so  at 
twenty.  He  sees  and  loves.  But  Alan  Mer- 
rick, having  let  slip  the  golden  moment  when 
nature  prompts  every  growing  youth  to  fling 
himself  with  pure  devotion  at  the  feet  of  the 
first  good  angel  who  happens  to  cross  his  path 
and  attract  his  worship,  had  now  outlived  the 


■ 
;  J 

■  f 
-  i 


32 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


\ 


*     ;  «• 

I    i  ' 

I         1;,,, 


early  flush  of  pure  passion,  and  was  thinkin<^ 
only  of  "comfortably  settling  himself."  In  one 
word,  when  a  man  is  young,  he  asks  himself 
with  a  thrill  what  he  can  do  to  make  happy 
this  sweet  soul  he  loves;  when  he  has  let  that 
critical  moment  flow  by  him  unseized,  he  asks 
only,  in  cold  blood,  what  woman  will  most 
agreeably  make  life  run  smooth  for  him.  The 
first  stage  is  pure  love;  the  second,  pure 
selfishness. 

Still,  Alan  Merrick  was  now  "getting  on  in 
his  profession,"  and,  as  people  said,  it  was 
high  time  he  should  be  settled.  They  said  it 
as  they  might  have  said  it  was  high  time  he 
should  take  a  business  partner.  From  that 
lowest  depth  of  emotional  disgrace  Herminia 
Barton  was  to  preserve  him.  It  was  her  task 
in  life,  though  she  knew  it  not,  to  save  Alan 
Merrick's  soul.     And  nobly  she  saved  it. 

Alan,  "looking  about  him,"  with  some  fine 
qualities  of  nature  underlying  in  the  back- 
ground that  mean  social  philosophy  of  the  class 
from  which  he  sprang,  fell  frankly  in  love 
almost  at  first  sight  with  Herminia.  He  ad- 
mired and  respected  her.  More  than  that,  he 
understood  her.  She  had  power  in  her  purity 
to  raise  his  nature  for  a  time  to  something 
approaching  her  own  high  level.  True  woman 
has  the  real   Midas  gift:  all   that   she  touches 


11. 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DH). 


33 


i  ! 


'i 

i 


turns  to  purest  j^old.  Sccin<^  Ilcrminia  much 
and  talking  with  her,  Alan  could  not  fail  to  be 
impressed  with  the  idea  that  here  was  a  soul 
which  could  do  a  great  deal  more  for  him  than 
"make  him  comfortable,"  —  which  could  raise 
him  to  moral  heights  he  had  hardly  yet  dreamt 
of, —  which  could  vvake  in  him  the  best  of  which 
he  was  capable.  And  watching  her  thus,  he  soon 
fell  in  love  with  her,  as  few  men  of  thirty  are 
able  to  fall  in  love  for  the  first  time,  — as  the 
young  man  falls  in  love,  with  the  unselfish 
energy  of  an  unspoilt  nature.  lie  asked  no 
longer  whether  Ilcrminia  was  the  sort  of  girl 
who  could  make  him  comfortable;  he  asked 
only,  with  that  delicious  tremor  of  self-distrust 
which  belongs  to  ^laive  youth,  whether  he  dare 
offer  himself  to  one  so  pure  and  good  and 
beautiful.  And  his  hesitation  was  justified; 
for  our  sordid  England  has  not  brought  forth 
many  such  serene  and  single-minded  souls  as 
Herminia  Barton. 

At  last  one  afternoon  they  had  climbed 
together  the  steep  red  face  of  the  sandy  slope 
that  rises  abruptly  from  the  Ilolmwood  towards 
Leith  Hill,  by  the  Robin  Gate  entrance.  Near 
the  top,  they  had  seated  themselves  on  a  carpet 
of  sheep-sorrel,  looking  out  across  the  impertur- 
bable expanse  of  the  Weald,  and  the  broad  pas- 
tures of  Sussex.     A  solemn  blue  haze  brooded 

3 


'(, 


i  I 


II! 


1 


34 


THK   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


1 

4 


'i  m 


i 


soft  over  the  land.  The  sun  was  sinking;  low; 
oblique  afternoon  lights  flooded  the  distant 
South  Downs.  Their  combes  came  out  aslant 
in  scuicer-shaped  shadows.  Alan  turned  and 
j;azed  at  Herminia;  she  was  hot  with  climbing, 
and  her  calm  face  was  flushed.  A  town-bred 
girl  would  have  looked  red  and  blowsy;  but  the 
color  and  the  exertion  just  suited  Herminia. 
On  that  healthy  brown  cheek  it  seemed  natural 
to  discern  the  visible  marks  of  effort.  Alan 
gazed  at  her  with  a  sudden  rush  of  untram- 
inellc(i  Reeling.  The  elusive  outline  of  her 
grave  sweet  face,  the  wistful  eyes,  the  ripe  red 
mouth  enticed  him.  "Oh,  Herminia,"  he  cried, 
calling  her  for  the  first  time  by  her  Christian 
name  alone,  "  how  glad  I  am  I  happened  to  go 
that  afternoon  to  Mrs.  Dewsbury's.  For  other- 
wise perhaps  I  might  never  have  known  you." 

Herminia's  heart  gave  a  delicious  bound. 
She  was  a  woman,  and  therefore  she  was  glad 
he  should  speak  so.  She  was  a  woman,  and 
therefore  she  shrank  from  acknowledging  it. 
But  she  looked  him  back  in  the  face  tranquilly, 
none  the  less  on  thp^  account,  and  answered 
with  sweet  candor,  "Thank  you  so  much,  Mr. 
Merrick." 

"/said  'Herminia,'  "the  young  man  corrected, 
smiling,  yet  aghast  at  his  own  audacity. 

"And   I   thanked  you  for  it,"  Herminia  an- 


t 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


35 


swcrcd,  casting;  down  those  dark  lashes,  and 
fee]'n<^  the  heart  throb  violently  under  her  neat 
bodice. 

Alan  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  And  it  was  t/iat 
you  thanked  me  for,"  he  ejaculated,  tinj^lin^. 

"Yes,  it  was  that  I  thanked  you  for,"  lier- 
minia  answered,  with  a  still  deeper  rose  spread- 
ing down  to  her  bare  throat.  "I  like  you  very 
much,  and  it  pleases  me  to  hear  you  call  me 
Herminia.  Why  should  I  shrink  from  admit- 
ting it?  'T  is  the  Truth,  you  know;  and  the 
Truth  shall  make  us  Free.  I  'm  not  afraid  of 
my  freedom." 

Alan  paused  for  a  second,  irresolute.  "  Her- 
minia," he  said  at  last,  leaning  forward  till  his 
face  was  very  close  to  hers,  and  he  could  feel 
the  warm  breath  that  came  and  went  so  quickly; 
"that 's  very,  very  kind  of  you.  I  needn't  tell 
you  I  've  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  you 
these  last  three  weeks  or  so.  You  have  filled 
my  mind;  filled  it  to  the  brim,  and  I  think  you 
know  it." 

Philosopher  as  she  was,  Herminia  plucked  a 
blade  of  grass,  and  drew  it  quivering  through 
her  tremulous  fingers.  It  caught  and  hesitated. 
"I  guessed  as  much,  I  think,"  she  answered, 
low  but  frankly. 

The  young  man's  heart  gave  a  bound.  "And 
jon,  Herminia.-*"  he  asked,  in  an  eager  ecstasy. 


vi  n 


it 

f 


36 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


1 


Herminia  was  true  to  the  Truth.  "I've 
thought  a  great  deal  about  you  too,  Mr.  Mer- 
rick," 3he  answered,  looking  down,  but  with  a 
great  gladness  thrilling  her. 

"  I  said  *  Herminia, '  "  the  young  man  repeated, 
with  a  marked  stress  on  the  Christian  name. 

Herminia  hesitated  a  second.  Then  two 
crimson  spots  flared  forth  on  her  speaking  face, 
as  she  answered  with  an  effort,  *'  About  you 
too,   Alan." 

The  young  man  drew  back  and  gazed  at  her. 

She  was  very,  very  beautiful.  "Dare  I  ask 
you,  Herminia.?"  he  cried.  "Have  I  a  right 
to  ask  you.?  Am  I  worthy  of  you,  I  mean.? 
Ought  I  to  retire  as  not  your  peer,  and  leave 
you  to  some  man  who  could  rise  more  easily 
to  the  height  of  your  dignity.?" 

"I've  thought  about  that  too,"  Herminia 
answered,  still  firm  to  her  principles.  "  I  've 
thought  it  all  over.  I  've  said  to  myself,  Shall 
I  do  right  in  monopolizing  him,  when  he  is  so 
great,  and  sweet,  and  true,  and  generous.?  Not 
monopolizing,  of  course,  for  that  would  be  wrong 
and  selfish;  but  making  you  my  own  more  than 
any  other  woman's.  And  I  answered  my  own 
heart.  Yes,  yes,  I  shall  do  right  to  accept  him, 
if  he  asks  me;  for  I  love  him,  that  is  enough. 
The  thrill  within  me  tells  me  so.  Nature  put 
that  thrill  in  our  souls  to  cry  out  to  us  with  a 


I        ! 


\ 


i:   M 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


37 


i 
i 


I 


clear  voice  when  we  had  met  the  soul  she  then 
and  there  intended  for  us." 

Alan's  face  flushed  like  her  own.  "Then 
you  love  me,"  he  cried,  all  on  fire.  "And  you 
deign  to  tell  me  so;  Oh,  Herminia,  how  sweet 
you  are.     What  have  I  done  to  deserve  it  ?  " 

He  folded  her  in  his  arms.  Her  bosom 
throbbed  on  his.  Their  lips  met  for  a  second. 
Herminia  took  his  kiss  with  sweet  submission, 
and  made  no  faint  pretence  of  fighting  against 
it.  Her  heart  was  full.  She  quickened  to  the 
finger-tips. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute  or  two,  — the 
silence  when  soul  speaks  direct  to  soul  through 
the  vehicle  of  touch,  the  mother-tongue  of  the 
affections.  Then  Alan  leaned  back  once  more, 
and  hanging  over  her  in  a  rapture  murmured 
in  soft  low  tones,  "So  Herminia,  you  will  be 
mine!     You  say  beforehand  you  will  take  me." 

"Not  zui//  be  yours,"  Herminia  corrected  in 
that  silvery  voice  of  hers.  ''Am  yours  already, 
Alan.  I  somehow  feel  as  if  I  had  always  been 
yours.  I  am  yours  this  moment.  You  may  do 
what  you  would  with  me." 

She  said  it  so  simply,  so  purely,  so  naturally, 
with  all  the  supreme  faith  of  the  good  woman, 
enamoured,  who  can  yield  herself  up  without 
blame  to  the  man  who  loves  her,  that  it  hardly 
even  occurred  to  Alan's  mind  to  wonder  at  her 


38 


THE  WOMAN   WHO  DID. 


I 


I    I'' 


self-surrender.  Yet  he  drew  back  all  the  same 
in  a  sudden  little  crisis  of  doubt  and  uncer- 
tainty. He  scarcely  realized  what  she  meant. 
"Then,  dearest,"  he  cried  tentatively,  "how 
soon  may  we  be  married.?" 

At  sound  of  those  unexpected  words  from 
such  lips  as  his,  a  flush  of  shame  and  horror 
overspread  Plerminia's  cheek.  "Never!"  she 
cried  firmly,  drawing  away.  "Oh,  Alan,  what 
can  you  mean  by  it.?  Don't  tell  me,  after  all 
I  've  tried  to  make  you  feel  and  understand, 
you  thought  I  could  possibly  consent  to  warrv 
you.?"  -^ 

The  man  gazed  at  her  in  surprise.  Though 
he  was  prepared  for  much,  he  was  scarcely  pr'^e- 
pared  for  such  devotion  to  principle.  "Oh 
Herminia,"  he  cried,  "you  can't  mean  it.  You 
can't  have  thought  of  what  it  entails.  Surely, 
surely,  you  won't  carry  your  ideas  of  freedom 
to  such  an  extreme,  such  a  dangerous  conclu- 
sion !  " 

Herminia  looked  up  at  him,  half  hurt. 
"Can't  have  thought  of  what  it  entails!"  she 
repeated.  Her  dimples  deepened.  "Why, 
Alan,  haven't  I  had  my  whole  lifetime  to  think 
of  it.?  What  else  have  I  thought  about  in  any 
serious  way,  save  this  one  great  question  of  a 
woman's  duty  to  herself,  and  her  sex,  and  her 
unborn   children.?     It's   been    my   sole   study. 


I 


I 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


39 


How  could  you  fancy  I  spoke  hastily,  or  with- 
out clue  consideration  on  such  a  subject  .!* 
Would  you  have  me  like  the  blind  girls  who 
go  unknowing  to  the  altar,  as  sheep  go  to  the 
shambles.^  Could  you  suspect  me  of  such  care- 
lessness ?  —  such  culpable  thoughtlessness  ?  — 
you,  to  whom  I  have  spoken  of  all  this  so 
freely  ?  " 

Alan  stared  at  her,  disconcerted,  hardly 
knowing  how  to  answer.  "  But  what  alterna- 
tive do  you  propose,  then.^"  he  asked  in  his 
amazement. 

"Propose.'*"  Herminia  repeated,  taken  aback 
in  her  turn.  It  all  seemed  to  her  so  plain,  and 
transparent,  and  natural.  "Why,  simply  that 
we  should  be  friends,  like  any  others,  very  dear, 
dear  friends,  with  the  only  kind  of  friendship 
that  nature  makes  possible  between  men  and 
women." 

She  said  it  so  softly,  with  some -womanly 
gentleness,  yet  with  such  lofty  candor,  that 
Alan  could  n't  help  admiring  her  rrore  than 
ever  before  for  her  translucent  simplicity,  and 
directness  of  purpose.  Yet  her  suggestion 
frightened  him.  It  was  so  much  more  novel 
to  him  than  to  her.  Plerminia  had  reasoned 
it  all  out  with  herself,  as  she  truly  said,  for 
years,  and  knew  exactly  how  she  felt  and 
thought  about   it.     To  Alan,  on   the  contrary, 


V 

31 


1:' 


':!; 


i.'if 


::    'i 


Tfr- 


i  I 


.  I 


40 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


it  came  with  the  shock  of  a  sudden  surprise, 
and  he  could  hardly  tell  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  how  to  deal  with  it.  He  paused  and 
reflected.  "  But  do  you  mean  to  say,  Herminia," 
he  asked,  still  holding  that  soft  brown  hand 
unresisted  in  his,  "you've  made  up  your  mind 
never  to  marry  any  one.?  made  up  your  mind  to 
brave  the  whole  mad  world,  that  can't  possibly 
understand  the  motives  of  your  conduct,  and  live 
with  some  friend,  as  you  put  it,  unmarried.? " 

"Yes,  I've  made  up  my  mind,"  Herminia 
answered,  with  a  faint  tremor  in  her  maidenly 
voice,  but  with  hardly  a  trace  now  of  a  trait- 
orous blush,  where  no  blush  was  needed.  "  I  've 
made  up  my  mind,  Alan;  and  from  all  we  had 
said  and  talked  over  together,  I  thought  you 
at  least  would  sympathize  in  my  resolve." 

She  spoke  with  a  gentle  tinge  of  regret,  nay 
almost  of  disillusion.  The  bare  suggestion  of 
that  regret  stung  Alan  to  the  quick.  He  felt 
it  was  shame  to  him  that  he  could  not  rise  at 
once  to  the  height  of  her  splendid  self-renuncia- 
tion. "  You  mistake  me,  dearest,"  he  answered, 
petting  her  hand  in  his  own  (and  she  allowed 
him  to  pet  it).  "It  wasn't  for  myself,  or  for 
the  world  I  hesitated.  My  thought  was  for 
you.  You  are  very  young  yet.  You  say  you 
have  counted  the  cost.  I  wonder  if  you  have. 
I  wonder  if  you  realize  it." 


If; 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


41 


**Only  too  well,"  Herminia  replied,  in  a  very 
earnest  mood.  "  I  have  wrought  it  all  out  in 
my  mind  beforehand, — covenanted  with  my 
soul  that  for  women's  sake  I  would  be  a  free 
woman.  Alan,  whoever  would  be  free  must 
himself  strike  the  blow.  I  know  what  you 
will  say, — what  every  man  would  say  to  the 
woman  he  loved  under  similar  circumstances, 
—  'Why  should  you  be  the  victim?  Why 
should  you.  be  the  martyr?  Bask  in  the  sun 
yourself;  leave  this  doom  to  some  other.'  But, 
Alan,  I  can't.  I  feel  /  must  face  it.  Unless 
one  woman  begins,  there  will  be  no  begin- 
ning." She  lifted  his  hand  in  her  own,  and 
fondled  it  in  her  turn  with^  caressing  tender- 
ness. "Think  how  easy  it  would  be  for  me,  dear 
friend,"  she  cried,  with  a  catch  in  her  voice, 
"to  do  as  other  women  do;  to  accept  the  hon- 
orable marriage  you  offer  me,  as  other  women 
would  call  it;  to  be  false  to  my  sex,  a  traitor 
to  my  convictions;  to  sell  my  kind  for  a  mess 
of  pottage,  a  name  and  a  home,  or  even  for 
thirty  pieces  of  silver,  to  be  som^  rich  man's 
wife,  as  other  women  have  sold  it.  But,  Alan, 
I  can't.  My  conscience  won't  let  me.  I  know 
what  marriage  is,  from  what  vile  slavery  it  has 
sprung;  on  what  unseen  horrors  for  my  sister 
women  it  is  reared  and  buttressed;  by  what 
unholy  sacrifices  it  is  sustained,  and  made  pos- 


h 


k 


% 


fl 


42 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


;    fi 


'    li 


sibie.      I   know   it   has  a   history.      I   know  its 
past,   I  know  its  present,  and  I  can't  embrace 
It;  I  can't  be  untrue  to  my  most  sacred  beliefs. 
I   can't   pander   to   the   malignant   thing,    just 
because  a  man  who  loves  me  would  be  pleased 
by   my   giving   way   and   would   kiss   me,    and 
fondle  me  for  it.     And   I  love  you  to  fondle 
me.     But   I    must  keep  my  proper   place,   the 
freedom   which  I    have   gained   for   myself   by 
such   arduous   efforts.     I   have  said   to  you  al- 
ready, *  So  far  as   my  will  goes,  I   am  yours; 
take  me,  and  do  as  you  choose  with  me. '     That 
much  I  can  yield,  as  every  good  woman  should 
yield  it,  to  the  man  she  loves,  to  the  man  who 
loves  her.     But  more  than  that,  no.      It  would 
be  treason   to    my 'sex;    not   my   life,    not    my 
future,  not  my  individuality,  not  my  freedom." 
"I   wouldn't  ask  you  for  those,"  Alan   an- 
swered,   carried   away  by  the   torrent   flood    of 
her  passionate  speech.     "I  would  wish  you  to 
guard  them.     But,  Herminia,  just  as  a  matter 
of   form,  —  to    prevent  the  world  from   saying 
the  cruel  things  the  world  is  sure  to  say,  —and 
as  an  act  of  justice  to  you,  and  your  children! 
A  mere  ceremony  of  marriage;  what  more  does 
it  mean  now-a-days  than  that  we  two  agree  to 
live  together  on  the  ordinary  terms  of  civilized 
society.?  " 

Still  Herminia  shook  her  head.     "No,  no," 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


43 


she  cried  vehemently.  "I  deny  and  decline 
those  terms ;  they  are  part  and  parcel  of  a  sys- 
tem of  slavery.  I  have  learnt  that  the  righteous 
soul  should  avoid  all  appearance  of  evil.  I  will 
not  palter  and  parley  with  the  unholy  thing. 
Even  though  you  go  to  a  registry-office  and 
get  rid  as  far  as  you  can  of  every  relic  of  the 
sacerdotal  and  sacramental  idea,  yet  the  mar- 
riage itself  is  still  an  assertion  of  man's  supre- 
macy over  woman.  It  ties  her  to  him  for  life, 
it  ignores  her  individuality,  it  compels  her  to 
promise  what  no  human  heart  can  be  sure  of 
performing;  for  you  can  contract  to  do  or  not 
to  do,  easily  enough,  but  contract  to  feel  or 
not  to  feel, — what  transparent  absurdity!  It 
is  full  of  all  evils,  and  I  decline  to  consider  it. 
If  I  love  a  man  at  all,  I  must  love  him  on  terms 
of  perfect  freedom.  I  can't  bind  myself  down 
to  live  with  him  to  my  shame  one  day  longer 
than  I  love  him;  or  to  love  him  at  all  if  I  find 
him  unworthy  of  my  purest  love,  or  unable  to 
retain  it;  or  if  I  discover  some  other  more  fit  to 
be  loved  by  me.  You  admitted  the  other  day 
that  all  this  was  abstractly  true;  why  should  you 
wish  this  morning  to  draw  back  from  following 
it  out  to  its  end  in  practice  .-^  " 

Alan  was  only  an  Englishman,  and  shared, 
of  course,  the  inability  of  his  countrymen  to 
carry  any  principle  to    its  logical  conclusion. 


m 
If 


m 


mi' 


ti^ 


44 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


i  f:  : 


^  ai 


He  was  all  for  admitting  that  though  things 
must  really  be  so,  yet  it  were  prudent  in  life 
to  pretend  they  were  otherwise.  This  is  the 
well-known  English  virtue  of  moderation  and 
compromise;  it  has  made  England  what  she 
is,  the  shabbiest,  sordidest,  worst-organized  of 
nations.  So  he  paused  for  a  second  and  tem- 
porized. "It's  for  your  sake,  Herminia,"  he 
said  again ;  "  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  your  mak- 
ing yourself  a  martyr.  And  I  don't  see  how, 
if  you  act  as  you  propose,  you  could  escape 
martyrdom." 

Herminia  looked  up  at  him  with  pleading 
eyes.  Tears  just  trembled  on  the  edge  of 
those  glistening  lashes.  "  It  never  occurred 
to  me  to  think,"  she  said  gently  but  bravely, 
"my  life  could  ever  end  in  anything  else  but 
martyrdom.  It  must  needs  be  so  with  all  true 
lives,  and  all  good  ones.  For  whoever  sees  the 
truth,  whoever  strives  earnestly  with  all  his 
soul  to  be  good,  must  be  raised  many  planes 
above  the  common  mass  of  men  around  him;  he 
must  be  a  moral  pioneer,  and  the  moral  pioneer 
is  always  a  martyr.  People  won't  allow  others 
to  be  wiser  and  better  than  themselves,  unpun- 
ished. They  can  forgive  anything  except  moral 
superiority.  We  have  each  to  choose  between 
acquiescence  in  the  wrong,  with  a  life  of  ease, 
and  struggle  for  the  right,  crowned  at  last  by 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


45 


inevitable  failure.  To  succeed  is  to  fail,  and 
failure  is  the  only  success  worth  aiming  at. 
livery  great  and  good  life  can  but  end  in  a 
Calvary." 

"And  I  want  to  save  you  from  that,"  Alan 
cried,  leaning  over  her  with  real  tenderness, 
for  she  was  already  very  dear  to  him.  "  I  want 
to  save  you  from  yourself;  I  want  to  make  you 
think  twice  before  you  rush  headlong  into  such 
a  danger. " 

'^  Not  to  save  me  from  myself,  but  to  save 
me  from  my  own  higher  and  better  nature," 
Herminia  answered  with  passionate  serious- 
ness. "Alan,  I  don't  want  any  man  to  save 
me  from  that ;  I  want  you  rather  to  help  me, 
to  strengthen  me,  to  sympathize  with  me.  I 
want  you  to  love  me,  not  for  my  face  and  form 
alone,  not  for  what  I  share  with  every  other 
woman,  but  for  all  that  is  holiest  and  deepest 
within  me.  If  you  can't  love  me  for  that,  I 
don't  ask  you  to  love  me;  I  want  to  be  loved 
for  what  I  am  in  myself,  for  the  yearnings  I 
possess  that  are  most  of  all  peculiar  to  me.  I 
know  you  are  attracted  to  me  by  those  yearn- 
ings above  everything;  why  wish  me  untrue 
to  them  ?  It  was  because  I  saw  you  could  sym- 
pathize with  me  in  these  impulses  that  I  said 
to  myself,  Here,  at  last,  is  the  man  who  can  go 
through  life  as  an  aid  and  a  spur  to  me.     Don't 


fl 


a  ?l 


<m 


46 


TlIK   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


W 


V 


Si'.     ■ 


tell  me  I  was  mistaken;  don't  belie  my  belief, 
lie  what  I  thouf^ht  you  were,  what  I  know  you 
are.  Work  with  me,  and  help  me.  Lift  me! 
raise  me!  exalt  me!  Take  me  on  the  sole 
terms  on  which  I  can  give  myself  up  to  you." 

She  stretched  her  arms  out,  pleading;  she 
turned  those  subtle  eyes  to  him,  appealingly. 
She  was  a  beautiful  woman.  Alan  Merrick  was 
human.  The  man  in  him  gave  wa)  ;  he  seized 
her  in  his  clasp,  and  pressed  her  close  to  his 
bosom.  It  heaved  tumultuously.  "  I  could  do 
anything  for  you,  Herminia,"  he  cried,  "and 
indeed,  I  do  sympathize  with  you.  But  give 
me,  at  least,  till  to-morrow  to  think  this 
thing  over.  It  is  a  momentous  question;  don't 
let  us  be  precipitate." 

Herminia  drew  a  long  breath.  His  embrace 
thrilled  through  her.  "As  you  will,"  she 
answered  with  a  woman's  meekness.  "But 
remember,  Alan,  what  I  say  I  mean ;  on  these 
terms  it  shall  be,  and  upon  none  others.  Brave 
women  before  me  have  tried  for  awhile  to  act 
on  their  own  responsibility,  for  the  good  of 
their  sex;  but  never  of  their  own  free  will 
from  the  very  beginning.  They  have  avoided 
marriage,  not  because  they  thought  it  a  shame 
and  a  surrender,  a  treason  to  their  sex,  a  base 
yielding  to  the  unjust  pretensions  of  men,  but 
because  there  existed  at  the  time  some  obstacle 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


47 


in  their  way  in  the  shape  of  the  vested  interest 
of  some  other  woman.  Wlien  IVIary  Godwin 
chose  to  mate  herself  with  Shelley,  she  took 
her  good  name  in  her  hands;  but  still  there 
was  Harriet.  As  soon  as  Harriet  was  dead, 
Mary  showed  she  had  no  deep  principle  of 
action  involved,  by  marrying  Shelley.  When 
George  Eliot  chose  to  pass  her  life  with  Lewes 
on  terms  of  equal  freedom,  she  defied  the  man- 
made  law;  but  still,  there  was  his  wife  to  pre- 
vent the  possibility  of  a  legalized  union.  As 
soon  as  Lewes  was  dead,  George  Eliot  showed 
she  had  no  principle  involved,  by  marrying 
another  man.  Now,  /  have  the  rare  chance  of 
acting  otherwise;  I  can  show  the  world  from 
the  very  first  that  I  act  from  principle,  and 
from  principle  only.  I  can  say  to  it  in  effect, 
'  See,  here  is  the  man  of  my  choice,  the  man 
I  love,  truly,  and  purely,  the  man  any  one  of 
you  would  willingly  have  seen  offering  himself 
in  lawful  marriage  to  your  own  daughters.  If 
I  would,  I  might  go  the  beaten  way  you  pre- 
scribe, and  marry  him  legally.  But  of  my  own 
free  will  I  disdain  that  degradation;  I  choose 
rather  to  be  free.  No  fear  of  your  scorn,  no 
dread  of  your  bigotry,  no  shrinking  at  your 
cruelty,  shall  prevent  me  from  following  the 
thorny  path  I  know  to  be  the  right  one.  I 
seek  no  temporal  end.     I  will  not  prove  false 


M 


48 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


IIS 

f. 


■I 


15 

k 


to  the  future  of  my  kind  in  order  to  protect 
myself  from  your  hateful  indignities.  I  know 
on  what  vile  foundations  your  temple  of  wed- 
lock is  based  and  built,  what  pitiable  victims 
languish  and  die  in  its  sickening  vaults ;  and  I 
will  not  consent  to  enter  it.  Here,  of  my  own 
free  will,  I  take  my  stand  for  the  right,  and 
refuse  your  sanctions!  No  woman  that  I  know 
of  has  ever  yet  done  that.  Other  women  have 
fallen,  as  men  choose  to  put  it  in  their  odious 
dialect;  no  other  has  voluntarily  risen  as  I  pro- 
pose to  do. '  "  She  paused  a  moment  for  breath. 
"Now  you  know  how  I  feel,"  she  continued, 
looking  straight  into  his  eyes.  "  Say  no  more 
at  present ;  it  is  wisest  so.  But  go  home  and 
think   it   out,    and    talk    it   over  with   me   to- 


morrow. 


)> 


xh 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DH). 


49 


IV. 


That  night  Alan  slept  little.  Even  at  dinner 
his  hostess,  Mrs.  Waterton,  noticed  his  preoc- 
cupation; and,  on  the  pretext  of  a  headache, 
he  retired  early  to  his  own  bedroom.  His 
mind  was  full  of  Herminia  and  these  strange 
ideas  of  hers;  how  could  he  listen  with  a  be- 
coming show  of  interest  to  Ethel  Waterton 's 
aspirations  on  the  grand  piano  after  a  gipsy 
life,  — oh,  a  gipsy  life  for  her!  —  when  in  point 
of  fact  she  was  a  most  insipid  blonde  from  the 
cover  of  a  chocolate  box.^  So  he  went  to  bed 
betimes,  and  there  lay  long  awake,  deep  won- 
dering to  himself  how  to  act  about  Herminia. 

He  was  really  in  love  with  her.  That  much 
he  acknowledged  frankly.  More  profoundly  in 
love  than  he  had  ever  conceived  it  possible  he 
could  find  himself  with  any  one.  Hitherto,  he 
had  "considered"  this  girl  or  that,  mostly  on 
his  mother's  or  sister's  recommendation;  and 
after  observing  her  critically  for  a  day  or  two, 
as  he  might  have  observed  a  horse  or  any  other 
intended  purchase,  he  had  come  to  the  conclu- 

4 


11 


I 


\ 


I  'l 


I 

1 

I 


1  it 


f  J^ 


50 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


sion  "she  wouldn't  do,"  and  had  ceased  to 
entertain  her.  But  with  Herminia,  he  was  in 
love.  The  potent  god  had  come  upon  him. 
That  imperious  inner  monitor  which  cries  aloud 
to  a  man,  "  You  must  have  this  girl,  because 
you  can't  do  without  her;  you  must  strive  to 
make  her  happy,  because  her  happiness  is  more 
to  you  now  ten  thousand  fold  than  your  own," 
that  imperious  inner  monitor  had  spoken  out 
at  last  in  no  uncertain  tone  to  Alan  Merrick. 
He  knew  for  the  first  time  what  it  is  to  be  in 
love;  in  love  with  a  true  and  beautiful  woman, 
not  with  his  own  future  convenience  and  com- 
fort. The  keen  fresh  sense  it  quickened  within 
him  raised  him  for  the  moment  some  levels 
above  himself.  For  Herminia's  sake,  he  felt, 
he  could  do  or  dare  anything. 

Nay,  more;  as  Herminia  herself  had  said  to 
him,  it  was  her  better,  her  inner  self  he  was 
in  love  with,  not  the  mere  statuesque  face,  the 
full  and  faultless  figure.  He  saw  how  pure, 
how  pellucid,  how  noble  the  woman  was ;  tread- 
ing her  own  ideal  world  of  high  seraphic  har- 
monies. He  was  in  love  with  her  stainless 
soul ;  he  could  not  have  loved  her  so  well, 
could  not  have  admired  her  so  profoundly,  had 
she  been  other  than  she  was,  had  she  shared 
the  common  prejudices  and  preconceptions  of 
women.     It  was  just  because  she  was  Herminia 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


51 


that  he  felt  so  irresistibly  attracted  towards 
her.  She  drew  him  like'  a  ruagnet.  What  he 
loved  and  admired  was  not  so  much  the  fair, 
frank  face  itself,  as  the  lofty  Cornelia-like 
spirit  behind  it. 

And  yet,  —  he  hesitated. 

Could  he  accept  the  sacrifice  this  white  soul 
wished  to  make  for  him.^  Could  he  aid  ar 
abet  her  in  raising  up  for  herself  so  much  unde- 
served obloquy.**  Could  he  help  her  to  become 
AnatJienia  inaranat ha  dixnong  her  sister  women  .^ 
Even  if  she  felt  brave  enough  to  try  the  experi- 
ment herself  for  humanity's  sake,  was  it  not 
his  duty  as  a  man  to  protect  her  from  her  own 
sublime  and  generous  impulses.^  Is  it  not  for 
that  in  part  that  nature  makes  us  virile.^  We 
must  shield  <"he  weaker  vessel.  He  was  flattered 
not  a  li.-.e  that  this  leader  among  women 
should  have  picked  him  out  for  herself  among 
the  ranks  of  men  a^.  her  predestined  companion 
in  her  chosen  task  of  emancipating  her  sex. 
And  he  was  thoroughly  sympathetic  (as  every 
good  man  must  needs  be)  with  her  aims  and 
her  method.  Yet,  still  he  hesitated.  Never 
before  could  he  have  conceived  aiich  a  problem 
of  the  soul,  such  a  moral  dilemma  possible.  It 
rent  heart  and  brain  at  once  asunder.  Instinc- 
tively he  felt  to  himself  he  would  be  doing 
wrong  should  he  try  in  any  way  to  check  these 


W 


•a 


i  1,1 


Vl'v 


52 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


J!      ■' 


K 


I    ■.;■ 


K 


splendid  and  unselfish  impulses  which  led 
Herminia  to  offer  hers(.'lf  willingly  up  as  a 
living  sacrifice  on  behalf  of  her  enslaved  sis- 
ters everywhere.  Yet  the  innate  feeling  of 
the  man,  that  't  is  his  place  to  protect  and 
guard  the  woman,  even  from  her  own  higher 
and  purer  self,  intervened  to  distract  him.  He 
could  n't  bear  to  feel  he  might  be  instrumental 
in  bringing  upon  his  pure  Herminia  the  tor- 
tures that  must  be  in  store  for  her;  he  could  n't 
bear  to  think  his  name  might  be  coupled  with 
hers  in  shameful  ways,  too  base  for  any  man  to 
contemplate. 

And  then,  intermixed  with  these  higher 
motives,  came  others  that  he  hardly  liked  to 
confess  to  himself  where  Herminia  was  con- 
cerned, but  which  nevertheless  would  obtrude 
themselves,  will  he,  nill  he,  upon  him.  What 
would  other  people  say  about  such  an  innocent 
union  as  Herminia  contemplated.^  Not  indeed, 
"What  effect  would  it  have  upon  his  position 
and  prospects.^"  Alan  Merrick's  place  as  a 
barrister  was  fairly  well  assured ;  and  the  Bar 
is  luckily  one  of  the  few  professions  in  lie- 
loving  England  where  a  man  need  not  grovel 
at  the  mercy  of  the  moral  judgment  of  the 
meanest  and  grossest  among  his  fellow-crea- 
tures, as  is  the  case  with  the  Church,  with 
medicine,    with    the    politician,    and   with   the 


SI 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


S3 


schoolmaster.  But  Alan  could  not  help  think- 
ing all  the  same  how  people  would  misinter- 
pret and  misunderstand  his  relations  with  the 
woman  he  loved,  if  he  modelled  them  strictly 
upon  Herminia's  wishes.  It  was  hateful,  it 
was  horrible  to  have  to  con  the  thing  over, 
where  that  faultless  soul  was  concerned,  in  the 
vile  and  vulgar  terms  other  people  would  apply 
to  it;  but  for  Herminia's  sake,  con  it  over  so 
he  must ;  and  though  he  shrank  from  the  effort 
with  a  deadly  shrinking,  he  nevertheless  faced 
it.  Men  at  the  clubs  would  say  he  had  seduced 
Herminia.  Men  at  the  clubs  would  lay  the 
whole  blame  of  the  episode  upon  him;  and  he 
could  n't  bear  to  be  so  blamed  for  the  sake  of 
a  woman,  to  save  whom  from  the  faintest 
shadow  of  disgrace  or  shame  he  would  willingly 
have  died  a  thousand  times  over.  For  since 
Herminia  had  confessed  her  love  to  him  yes- 
terday, he  had  begun  to  feel  how  much  she  was 
to  him.  His  admiration  and  appreciation  of 
her  had  risen  inexpressibly.  And  was  he  now 
to  be  condemned  for  having  dragged  down  to 
the  dust  that  angel  whose  white  wings  he  felt 
himself  unworthy  to  touch  with  the  hem  of  his 
garment  ? 

And  yet,  once  more,  when  he  respected  her 
so  much  for  the  sacrifice  she  was  willing  to 
make  for  humanity,  would  it  be  right  for  him 


i> 


IV 


Jiff 


ill 


/ 1 


1  V 


1  I 


I  , 


!i    'I'i' 


« i: 


1 1 
i  ii 

i  * 


i  f?  'i^ 


!•  9  'i| 


ii:-*! 


i( 


54 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


to  stand  in  her  way,  to  deter  her  from  realizing 
her  own  highest  nature?  She  was  Herminia 
just  because  she  lived  in  that  world  of  high 
hopes,  just  because  she  had  the  courage  and 
the  nobility  to  dare  this  great  thing.  Would 
it  be  right  of  him  to  bring  her  down  from  that 
pedestal  whereon  she  stood  so  austere,  and 
urge  upon  her  that  she  should  debase  herself 
to  be  as  any  other  woman,  —  even  as  Ethel 
Waterton?  For  the  Watertons  had  brought 
him  there  to  propose  to  Ethel. 

For  hours  he  tossed  and  turned  and  revolved 
these  problems.  Rain  beat  on  the  leaded  panes 
of  the  Waterton  dormers.  Day  dawned,  but  no 
light  came  with  it  to  his  troubled  spirit.  The 
more  he  thought  of  this  dilemma,  the  more  pro- 
found ly  he  shrank  from  the  idea  of  allowinr^- 
himself  to  be  made  into  the  instrument  for 
what  the  world  would  call,  after  its  kind,  Her- 
minia's  shame  and  degradation.  For  even  if 
the  world  could  be  made  to  admit  that  Her- 
minia had  done  what  she  did  from  chaste  and 
noble  motives, — which  considering  what  we 
all  know  of  the  world,  was  improbable, — yet 
at  any  rate  it  could  never  allow  that  he  himself 
had  acted  from  any  but  the  vilest  and  most 
unworthy  reasons.  Base  souls  would  see  in 
the  sacrifice  he  made  to  Herminia's  ideals,  only 
the  common  story  of  a  trustful  woman  cruelly 


! 
i 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


55 


betrayed  by  the  man  who  pretended  to  love 
her,  and  would  proceed  to  treat  him  with  the 
coldness  and  contempt  with  which  such  a  man 
deserves  to  be  treated. 

As  the  morning  wore  on,  this  view  of  the 
matter  obtruded  itself  more  and  more  forcibly 
every  moment  on  Alan.  Over  and  over  again 
he  said  to  himself,  let  come  what  come  might, 
he  must  never  aid  c.nd  abet  that  innocent  soul 
in  rushing  blindfold  over  a  cliff  to  her  own 
destruction.  It  is  so  easy  at  twenty-two  to 
ruin  yourself  for  life;  so  difficult  at  thirty  to 
climb  slowly  back  again.  No,  no,  holy  as  Her- 
minia's  impulses  were,  he  must  save  her  from 
herself;  he  must  save  her  from  her  own  purity; 
he  must  refuse  to  be  led  astray  by  her  romantic 
aspirations.  He  must  keep  her  to  the  beaten 
path  trod  by  all  petty  souls,  and  preserve  her 
from  the  painful  crown  of  martyrdom  she  her- 
self designed  as  her  eternal  diadem. 

Full  of  these  manful  resolutions,  he  rose  up 
early  in  the  morning.  He  would  be  his  Her- 
minia's  guardian  angel.  He  would  use  her 
love  for  him,  —  for  he  knew  she  loved  him,  — 
as  a  lever  to  egg  her  aside  from  these  slippery 
moral  precipices. 

He  mistook  the  solid  rock  of  ethical  resolu- 
tion he  was  trying  to  disturb  with  so  frail  an 
engine.     The    fulcrum    itself   would   yield   far 


*  . 


I    "I.  : 

f  rr 


i     if" 

■  1 

i' 


56 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


sooner  to  the  pressure  than  the  weight  of  Her 
niinia's  uncompromising  rectitude.  Passionate 
as  she  was  -and  with  that  opulent  form  she 
could  hardly  be  otherwise,  --principle  was  still 
deeper  and  more  imperious  with  her  than 
passion. 


IT'' 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


57 


V. 


m 


He  met  her  by  appointment  on  the  first  ridge 
of  Bore  Hill.  A  sunny  summer  morning  smiled 
fresh  after  the  rain.  Bumble-bees  bustled  busily 
about  the  closed  lips  of  the  red-rattle,  and  ripe 
gorse  pods  burst  with  little  elastic  explosions 
in  the  basking  sunlight. 

When  Alan  reached  the  trysting-place,  under 
a  broad-armed  oak,  in  a  glade  of  the  woodland, 
Herminia  was  there  before  him ;  a  good  woman 
always  is,  't  is  the  prerogative  of  her  affection. 
She  was  simply  dressed  in  her  dainty  print 
gown,  a  single  tea-rosebud  peeped  out  from 
her  bodice;  she  looked  more  lily-like,  so  Alan 
thought  in  his  heart,  than  he  had  ever  yet 
seen  her.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with 
parted  lips  and  a  conscious  blush.  Alan  took 
it,  but  bent  forward  at  the  same  time,  and  with 
a  hasty  glance  around,  just  touched  her  rich 
mouth.  Herminia  allowed  him  without  a 
struggle;  she  was  too  stately  of  mien  ever  to 
grant  a  favor  without  granting  it  of  pure  grace, 
and  with  queenly  munificence. 


i  ■« 


V 

Hi 


. 


f       'n 


\h 


:{ 


:'   a 


1 1 


58 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


Alan  led  her  to  a  grassy  bank  where  thyme 
and  basil  grew  matted,  and  the  hum  of  myriad 
wings  stirred  the  sultry  air;  Herminia  let  him 
lead  her.  She  was  woman  enough  by  nature  to 
like  being  led;  only,  it  must  be  the  right  man 
who  led  her,  and  he  must  lead  her  along  the 
path  that  her  conscience  approved  of.  Alan 
seated  himself  by  her  side,  and  took  her  hand 
in  his;  Herminia  let  him  hold  it.  This  love- 
making  was  pure  honey.  Dappled  spots  of 
light  and  shade  flecked  the  ground  beneath 
the  trees  like  a  jaguar's  skin.  Wood-pigeons 
crooned,  unseen,  from  the  leafy  covert.  She 
sat  there  long  without  uttering  a  word.  Once 
Alan  essayed  to  speak,  but  Herminia  cut  him 
short.  "Oh,  no,  not  yet,"  she  cried  half  petu- 
lantly; "this  silence  is  so  delicious.  I  love 
best  just  to  sit  and  hold  your  hand  like  this. 
Why  spoil  it  with  language  > " 

So  they  sat  for  some  minutes,  Herminia  with 
her  eyes  half  closed,  drinking  in  to  the  full  the 
delight  of  first  love.  She  could  feel  her  heart 
beating.  At  last  Alan  interposed,  and  began 
to  speak  to  her.  The  girl  drew  a  long  breath ; 
then  she  sighed  for  a  second,  as  she  opened  her 
eyes  again.  Every  curve  of  her  bosom  heaved 
and  swayed  mysteriously.  It  seemed  such  a 
pity  to  let  articulate  words  disturb  that  reverie. 
Still,    if    Alan    wished    it.     For  a  woman    is 


TIIK  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


59 


a  woman,  let  Girton  do  its  worst;  and  Hcr- 
minia  not  less  but  rather  more  than  the  rest 
of  them. 

Then  Alan  began.  With  her  hand  clasped 
in  his,  and  fondling  it  while  he  spoke,  he  urged 
all  he  could  urge  to  turn  her  from  her  purpose. 
He  pointed  out  to  her  how  unwise,  how  irre- 
trievable her  position  would  be,  if  she  once 
assumed  it.  On  such  a  road  as  that  there  is  no 
turning  back.  The  die  once  cast,  she  must  for- 
ever abide  by  it.  He  used  all  arts  to  persuade 
and  dissuade;  all  eloquence  to  save  her  from 
herself  and  her  salvation.  If  he  loved  her  less, 
he  said  with  truth,  he  might  have  spoken  less 
carn(^stly.  It  was  for  her  own  sake  he  spoke, 
because  he  so  loved  her.  He  waxed  hot  in  his 
eager  desire  to  prevent  her  from  taking  this 
fatal  step.  He  drew  his  breath  hard,  and 
paused.  Emotion  and  anxiety  overcame  him 
visibly. 

But  as  for  Herminia,  though  she  listened 
with  affection  and  with  a  faint  thrill  of  pleasure 
to  much  that  he  said,  seeing  how  deeply  he 
loved  her,  she  leaned  back  from  time  to  time, 
half  weary  with  his  eagerness,  and  his  conse- 
quent iteration.  "Dear  Alan,"  she  said  at  last, 
soothing  his  hand  with  her  own,  as  a  sister 
might  have  soothed  it,  "you  talk  about  all  this 
as  though   it  were  to   me   some   new   resolve, 


it 


ivaSR 


t 


60 


TIIL  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


r^ 


'I 


l<: 


some  new  idea  of  my  making.  You  forget  it 
is  the  outcome  of  my  life's  philosophy.  I 
have  grown  up  to  it  slowly.  I  have  thought 
of  all  this,  and  of  hardly  anything  else,  ever 
since  I  was  old  enough  to  think  for  myself 
about  anything.  Root  and  branch,  it  is  to  me 
a  foregone  conclusion.  I  love  you.  You  love 
me.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  there  ends  the 
question.  One  way  there  is,  and  one  way 
alone,  in  which  I  can  give  myself  up  to  you. 
Make  mc  yours  if  you  will;  but  if  not,  then 
leave  me.  Only,  remember,  by  leaving  me, 
you  won't  any  the  more  turn  me  aside  from 
my  purpose.  You  won't  save  me  from  myself, 
as  you  call  it;  you  will  only  hand  me  over  to 
some  one  less  fit  for  me  by  far  than  you  are." 
A  quiet  moisture  glistened  in  her  eyes,  and 
she  gazed  at  him  pensively.  "  How  wonderful 
it  is,"  she  went  on,  musing.  "Three  weeks 
ago,  I  did  n't  know  there  was  such  a  man  in 
the  world  at  all  as  you;  and  now  —  why,  Alan, 
I  feel  as  if  the  world  would  be  nothing  to  me 
without  you.  Your  name  seems  to  sing  in  my 
ears  all  day  long  with  the  song  of  the  birds, 
and  to  thrill  through  and  through  me  as  I  lie 
awake  on  my  pillow  with  the  cry  of  the  night- 
jar. Yet,  if  you  won't  take  me  on  my  own 
terms,  I  know  well  what  will  happen.  I  shall 
go  away,  and  grieve  over  you,  of  course,  and 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


6i 


feel  bereaved  for  months,  as  if  I  could  never 
possibly  aj^ain  love  any  man.  At  present  it 
seems  to  me  I  never  could  love  him.  liut 
though  my  heart  tells  me  that,  my  reason  tells 
mo  I  should  some  day  find  some  other  soul  I 
mi<;ht  perhaps  fall  back  upon.  But  it  would 
only  be  falling  back.  For  the  sake  of  my  prin- 
ciples alone,  and  of  the  example  I  wish  to  set 
the  world,  could  I  ever  fall  back  uj^on  any 
other.  Yet  fall  back  I  would.  And  what  good 
would  you  have  done  me  then  by  refusing  me.' 
You  would  merely  have  cast  me  off  from  the 
man  I  love  best,  the  man  who  I  know  by  imme- 
diate instinct,  which  is  the  voice  of  nature  and 
of  God  within  us,  was  intended  from  all  time 
for  me.  The  moment  I  saw  you  my  heart  beat 
quicker;  my  heart's  evidence  told  me  you  were 
the  one  love  meant  for  me.  Why  force  me  to 
decline  upon  some  other  less  meet  for  me.''  " 

Alan  gazed  at  her,  irresolute.  "  But  if  you 
love  me  so  much,"  he  said,  "surely,  surely,  it 
is  a  small  thing  to  trust  your  future  to  me." 

The  tenderness  of  woman  let  her  hand  glide 
over  his  cheek.  She  was  not  ashamed  of  her 
love.  "O  Alan,"  she  cried,  "if  it  were  only 
for  myself,  I  could  trust  you  with  my  life;  I 
could  trust  you  with  anything.  But  I  haven't 
only  myself  to  think  of.  I  have  to  think  of 
right  and  wrong;  I  have  to  think  of  the  world; 


i;^ 


1 1 


Ml 

It 


■!  'I 


(i 


62 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


t    ; 


<;  I 


\i 
I 

i  ■; 


.  li 


i  I 


h 


I  have  to  think  of  the  cause  wliich  ahiiost 
wholly  han^s  upon  me.  Not  for  nothinjjj  are 
these  impulses  implanted  in  my  breast.  They 
are  the  voice  of  the  soul  of  all  women  within 
me.  If  I  were  to  neglect  them  for  the  sake  of 
gratifying  your  wishes,  —  if  I  were  to  turn 
traitor  to  my  sex  for  the  sake  of  the  man  1 
love,  as  so  many  women  have  turned  before  me, 
I  should  hate  and  despise  myself.  I  could  n't 
love  you,  Alan,  quite  so  much,  loved  I  not 
honor  more,  and  the  battle  imposed  upon  me." 

Alan  wavered  as  she  spoke.  He  felt  what 
she  said  was  true;  even  if  he  refused  to  take 
uer  on  the  only  terms  she  could  accept,  he 
would  not  thereby  save  her.  She  would  turn 
in  time  and  bestow  herself  upon  some  man 
who  would  perhaps  be  less  worthv  of  lur,  — 
nay  even  on  some  man  who  might  forsake  her 
in  the  sequel  with  unspeakable  treachery.  Of 
conduct  like  that,  Alan  knew  himself  incapable. 
He  knew  that  if  he  took  Herminia  once  to  his 
heart,  he  would  treat  her  with  such  tenderness, 
such  constancy,  such  devotion  as  never  yet  was 
shown  to  living  woman.  (Love  always  thinks 
so.)  But  still,  he  shrank  from  the  idea  of  being 
himself  the  man  to  take  advantage  of  her; 
for  so  in  his  unregenerate  mind  he  j^hrased  to 
himself  their  union.  And  still  he  temporized. 
*'Even  so,   Herminia,"  he  cried,   bending  for- 


il 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DH). 


63 


!    1 


ward  and  gazing  hard  at  her,  "  I  could  n't  endure 
to  have  it  said  it  was  I  who  misled  you." 

Ilcrminia  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  with  just  a 
tinge  of  lofty  scorn,  tempered  only  by  the 
womanliness  of  those  melting  lashes.  "And 
you  can  think  of  thatf  she  murmured,  gazing 
across  at  him  half  in  tears.  "0  Alan,  for  my 
part  I  can  think  of  nothing  now  but  the  truths 
of  life  and  the  magnitude  of  the  issues.  Our 
hearts  against  the  world, —  love  and  duty  against 
convention." 

Then  Alan  began  again  and  talked  all  he 
knew.  He  urged,  he  prayed,  he  bent  forward, 
he  spoke  soft  and  low,  he  played  on  her  ten- 
derest  chords  as  a  loving  woman.  Herminia 
was  moved,  for  her  heart  went  forth  to  him, 
and  she  knew  why  he  tried  so  hard  to  save  her 
from  her  own  higher  and  truer  nature.  But 
she  never  yielded  an  inch.  She  stood  firm  to 
her  colors.  She  shook  her  head  to  the  last, 
and  murmured  over  and  over  again,  **  There  is 
only  one  right  way,  and  no  persuasion  on  earth 
will  ever  avail  to  turn  me  aside  from  it." 

The  Truth  had  made  her  Free,  and  she  was 
very  confident  of  it. 

At  last,  all  other  means  failing,  Alan  fell 
back  on  the  final  resort  of  delay.  He  saw 
much  merit  in  procrastination.  There  was  no 
hurry,  he  said.     They  need  n't  make  up  their 


■  i.i 

,    1 


64 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


11 


t   3    ! 


H 


t!| 


!    H 


I 


\ 


minds,  one  way  or  the  other,  immediately. 
They  could  take  their  time  to  think.  Perhaps, 
with  a  week  or  two  to  decide  in,  Herminia 
might  persuade  him;  or  he  might  persuade  her. 
Why  rush  on  fate  so  suddenly.-* 

But  at  that,  to  his  immense  surprise,  Her- 
minia demurred.  "No,  no,"  she  said,  shaking 
her  head,  "that's  not  at  all  what  I  want.  We 
must  decide  to-day  one  way  or  the  other.  Now 
is  the  accepted  time;  now  is  the  day  of  salva- 
tion. I  couldn't  let  you  wait,  and  slip  by  de- 
grees into  some  vague  arrangement  \vc  hardly 
contemplated  definitely.  To  do  that  would  be 
to  sin  against  my  ideas  of  decorum.  Whatever 
we  do  we  must  do,  as  the  apostle  says,  decently 
and  in  order,  with  a  full  sense  of  the  obliga- 
tions it  imposes  upon  us.  We  must  say  to  one 
another  in  so  many  words,  *  I  am  yours ;  you 
are  mine;'  or  we  must  part  forever.  I  have 
told  you  my  whole  soul ;  I  have  bared  my  heart 
before  you.  You  may  take  it  or  leave  it ;  but 
for  my  dignity's  sake,  I  put  it  to  you  now, 
choose  one  way  or  the  other." 

Alan  looked  at  her  hard.  Her  face  was  crim- 
son by  this  with  maidenly  shame;  but  she  made 
no  effort  to  hide  or  avert  it.  For  the  good  of 
humanity,  this  question  must  be  settled  once 
for  all;  and  no  womanish  reserve  should  make 
her  shrink  from  settling  it.     Happier  maidens 


r'tl 
li 

if. 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


65 


in  aj^es  to  come,  when  society  had  reconstructed 
itself  on  the  broad  basis  of  freedom,  would  never 
have  to  go  through  what  she  was  going  through 
that  moment.  They  would  be  spared  the  quiv- 
ering shame,  the  tingling  regret,  the  struggle 
with  which  she  braced  up  her  maiden  modesty 
to  that  supreme  effort.  But  she  would  go 
through  with  it  all  the  same.  For  eternal 
woman's  sake  she  had  long  contemplated  that 
day;  now  it  had  come  at  last,  she  would  not 
weakly  draw  back  from  it. 

Alan's  eyes  were  all  admiration.  He  stood 
near  enough  to  her  level  to  understand  her  to 
the  core.  "Herminia,"  he  cried,  bending  over 
her,  "you  drive  me  to  bay.  You  press  me  very 
hard.  I  feel  myself  yielding.  I  am  a  man; 
and  when  you  speak  to  me  like  that,  I  know  it. 
You  enlist  on  your  side  all  that  is  virile  within 
me.  Yet  how  can  I  accept  the  terms  you  offer  .^ 
For  the  very  love  I  bear  you,  how  do  you  this 
injustice.^  If  I  loved  you  less,  I  might  per- 
haps say  yes ;  because  I  love  you  so  well,  I  feel 
compelled  to  say  no  to  you. " 

Hcrminia  looked  at  him  hard  in  return.  Her 
cheeks  were  glowing  now  with  something  like 
the  shame  of  the  woman  who  feels  her  love  is 
lightly  rejected.  "Is  that  final .^"  she  asked, 
drawing  herself  up  as  she  sat,  and  facing  him 
proudly. 

5 


\;<\ 


I  \  s\ 


« 


p 


:.  I  ^ 


* 


;  11  M 


i^: 


66 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


"No,  no,  it's  not  final,"  Alan  answered,  feel- 
ing the  woman's  influence  course  through  body 
and  blood  to  his  quivering  finger-tips.  Magi- 
cal touches  stirred  him.  "  How  can  it  be  final, 
Hcrminia,  when  you  look  at  me  like  that? 
How  can  it  be  final,  when  you  're  so  gracious, 
so  graceful,  so  beautiful?  Oh,  my  child,  I  am 
a  man;  don't  play  too  hard  on  those  fiercest 
chords  in  my  nature." 

Herminia  gazed  at  him  fixedly;  the  dimples 
disappeared.  Her  voice  was  more  serious  now, 
and  had  nothing  in  it  of  pleading.  "It  isn't 
like  that  that  I  want  to  draw  you,  Alan,"  she 
answered  gravely.  "It  isn't  those  chords  I 
want  to  play  upon.  I  want  to  convince  your 
brain,  your  intellect,  your  reason.  You  agree 
with  me  in  principle.  Why  then,  should  you 
wish  to  draw  back  in  practice?" 

"Yes,  I  agree  with  you  in  principle,"  Alan 
answered.  "  It  is  n't  there  that  I  hesitate. 
Even  before  I  met  you,  I  had  arrived  at  pretty 
much  the  same  ideas  mvself,  as  a  matter  of 
abstract  reasoning.  I  saw  that  the  one  way  of 
freedom  for  the  woman  is  to  cast  off,  root  and 
branch,  the  evil  growth  of  man's  supremacy. 
I  saw  that  the  honorablcness  of  marriage,  the 
disgrace  of  free  union,  were  just  so  many 
ignoble  masculine  devices  to  keep  up  man's 
lordship;  vile  results  of  his  determination  to 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


6; 


taboo  to  himself  beforehand  and  monopolize 
for  life  some  particular  woman.  I  know  all 
that;  I  acknowledge  all  that.  I  see  as  plainly 
as  you  do  that  sooner  or  later  there  must  come 
a  revolution.  But,  Herminia,  the  women  who 
devote  themselves  to  carrying  out  that  revolu- 
tion, will  take  their  souls  in  their  hands,  and 
will  march  in  line  to  the  freeing  of  their  sex 
through  shame  and  calumny  and  hardships 
innumerable.  I  shrink  from  letting  you,  the 
woman  that  I  love,  bring  that  fate  upon  your- 
self; I  shrink  still  more  from  being  the  man  to 
aid  and  abet  you  in  doing  it." 

Herminia  f^xed  her  piercing  eyes  upon  his 
face  once  more.  Tears  stood  in  them  now. 
The  tenderness  of  woman  was  awakened  within 
her.  "Dear  Alan,"  she  said  gently,  "don't  I 
tell  you  I  have  thought  long  since  of  all  that.^ 
I  am  prepared  to  face  it.  It  is  only  a  question 
of  with  whom  I  shall  do  so.  Shall  it  be  with 
the  man  I  have  instinctively  loved  from  the 
first  moment  1  saw  him,  better  than  all  others 
on  earth,  or  shall  it  be  with  some  lesser?  If 
my  heart  is  willing,  why  should  yours  demur 
to  it?" 

"Because  I  love  you  too  well,"  Alan  answered 
doggedly. 

Herminia  rose  and  faced  him.  Her  hands 
dropped  by  her  side.     She  was  splendid  when 


^*1 


68 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


ii 


h 


I: 


V   1 


1 


li* 


1  iV 


fl  'S,  ! 


she  stood  so  with  her  panting  bosom.  "Then 
you  decide  to  say  good-bye?  "  she  cried,  with  a 
lingering  cadence. 

Alan  seized  her  by  both  wrists,  and  drew 
her  down  to  his  side.  "No,  no,  darling,"  he 
answered  low,  laying  his  lips  against  hers.  "I 
can  never  say  good-bye.  You  have  confessed 
you  love  me.  When  a  woman  says  that,  what 
can  a  man  refuse  her.-*  From  such  a  woman 
as  you,  I  am  so  proud,  so  proud,  so  proud  of 
such  a  confession;  how  could  I  ever  cease  to 
feel  you  were  mine, —  mine,  mine,  wholly  mine 
for  a  lifetime.^ " 

"Then  you  consent.?"  Herminia  cried,  all 
aglow,   half  nestling  to  his  bosom. 

"I  consent,"  Alan  answered,  with  profound 
misgivings.  "  What  else  do  you  leave  open  to 
me.?" 

Herminia  made  no  direct  answer;  she  only 
laid  her  head  with  perfect  trust  upon  the  man's 
broad  shoulder.  "O  Alan,"  she  murmured 
low,  letting  her  heart  have  its  way,  "you  are 
mine,  then;  you  are  mine.  You  have  made 
me  so  happy,  so  supremely  happy." 


■I 


1 


TPIE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


69 


VI. 


Thus,  half  against  his  will,  Alan  Merrick  was 
drawn  into  this  irregular  compact. 

Next  came  that  more  difficult  matter,  the  dis- 
cussion of  ways  and  means,  the  more  practical 
details.      Alan  hardly  knew  at  first  on  what  pre- 
cise  terms   it   was   Herminia's   wish   that   they 
two  should  pass  their  lives  together.     His  ideas 
were  all  naturally  framed  on  the  old  model  of 
marriage;    in   that  matter,    Herminia    said,    he 
was  still  in  the  gall  of  bitterness,  and  the  bond 
of    iniquity.      He  took    it    for   granted   that  of 
course  they  must   dwell    under   one    roof  with 
one  another.     But  that  simple  ancestral  notion, 
derived  from  man's  lordship  in  his  own  house! 
was  wholly  adverse  to  Herminia's  views  of  the 
reasonable  and  natural.      She  had  debated  these 
problems  at  full  in  her  own  mind  for  years,  and 
had  arrived  at  definite  and  consistent  solutions 
for  every  knotty  point  in   them.      Why  should 
this    friendship   differ    at    all,    she    asked,    in 
respect    of    time   and    place,    from    any   other 
friendship?     The  notion  of  necessarily  keeping 


I  ; 


nn 


70 


THE   WOMAN   WHO  DID. 


f! 


■    11 


I 


house  together,  the  cramping  idea  of  the  family 
tie,  belonged  entirely  to  the  regime  of  the  man- 
made  patriarchate,  where  the  woman  and  the 
children  were  the  slaves  and  chattels  of  the 
lord  and  master.  In  a  free  society,  was  it  not 
obvious  that  each  woman  would  live  her  own 
life  apart,  would  preserve  her  independence, 
and  would  receive  the  visits  of  the  man  for 
whom  she  cared, — the  father  of  her  children? 
Then  only  could  she  be  free.  Any  other 
method  meant  the  economic  and  social  superi- 
ority of  the  man,  and  was  irreconcilable  with 
the  perfect  individuality  of  the  woman. 

So  Herminia  reasoned.  She  rejected  at  once, 
therefore,  the  idea  of  any  change  in  her  exist- 
ing mode  of  life.  To  her,  the  friendship  she 
proposed  with  Alan  Merrick  was  no  social  rev- 
olution; it  was  but  the  due  fulfilment  of  her 
natural  functions.  To  make  of  it  an  occasion 
for  ostentatious  change  in  her  way  of  living 
seemed  to  her  as  unnatural  as  is  the  practice 
of  the  barbarians  in  our  midst  who  use  a  wed- 
ding—  that  most  sacred  and  private  event  in  a 
young  girl's  life  —  as  an  opportunity  for  display 
of  the  coarsest  and  crudest  character.  To  rivet 
the  attention  of  friends  on  bride  and  bride- 
groom is  to  offend  against  the  most  delicate 
susceptibilities  of  modesty.  From  all  such 
hateful    practices,    Herminia's    pure   mind   re- 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


71 


volted  by  instinct.  She  felt  that  here  at  least 
was  the  one  moment  in  a  woman's  history  when 
she  would  shrink  with  timid  reserve  from  every 
eye  save  one  man's,  —  when  publicity  of  any 
sort  was  most  odious  and  horrible. 

Only  the  blinding  effect  of  custom,  indeed, 
could  ever  have  shut  good  women's  eyes  to  the 
shameful  indecorousness  of  wedding  ceremonial. 
We  drag  a  young  girl  before  the  prying  gaze 
of  all  the  world  at  the  very  crisis  in  her  life, 
when  natural  modesty  would  most  lead  her  to 
conceal  herself  from  her  dearest  acquaintance. 
And  our  women  themselves  have  grown  so 
blunted  by  use  to  the  hatefulness  of  the  ordeal 
that  many  of  them  face  it  now  with  inhuman 
effrontery.  Familiarity  with  marriage  has  al- 
most killed  out  in  the  maidens  of  our  race  the 
last  lingering  relics  of  native  modesty.  y 

Herminia,  however,  could  dispense  with  all 
that  show.  She  had  a  little  cottage  of  her 
own,  she  told  Alan,  — a  tiny  little  cottage,  in 
a  street  near  her  school-work ;  she  rented  it 
for  a  small  sum,  in  quite  a  poor  quarter,  all 
inhabited  by  work-people.  There  she  lived  by 
herself;  for  she  kept  no  servants.  There  she 
should  continue  ^o  live;  why  need  this  purely 
personal  compact  between  them  two  make  any 
difference  in  her  daily  habits.?  She  would  go 
on    with    her    school-work  for   the    present,    as 


\ 


■  ( 


:•  Si 


72 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DH). 


t 


I!' 


usual.  Oh,  no,  she  certainly  did  n't  intend  to 
notify  tlie  head -mistress  of  the  school  or  any 
one  else,  of  her  altered  position.  It  was  r.o 
alteration  of  position  at  all,  so  far  as  she  was 
concerned;  merely  the  addition  to  life  of  a 
new  and  very  dear  and  natural  friendship, 
lierminia  took  her  own  point  of  view  so  in- 
stinctively indeed,  —  lived  so  wrapped  in  an 
ideal  world  of  her  own  and  the  future's,  —  that 
Alan  was  often  quite  alarmed  in  his  soul  when 
he  thought  of  the  rude  awakening  that  no  douhl 
awaited  her.  Yet  whenever  he  hinted  it  to  her 
with  all  possible  delicacy,  she  seemed  so  per- 
fectly prepared  for  the  worst  the  world  could 
do,  so  fixed  and  resolved  in  her  intention  of 
martyrdom,  that  he  had  no  argument  left,  and 
could  only  sigh  over  her. 

It  was  not,  she  explained  to  him  further,  that 
she  wished  to  conceal  anything.  The  least 
tinge  of  concealment  was  wholly  alien  to  that 
frank  fresh  nature.  If  her  head-mistress  asked 
her  a  point-blank  question,  she  would  not 
attempt  to  parry  it,  but  would  reply  at  once 
with  a  point  blank  answer.  Still,  her  very 
views  on  the  subject  made  it  impossible  for 
her  to  volunteer  information  unasked  to  any 
one.  Here  was  a  personal  matter  of  the  utmost 
privacy;  a  matter  which  concerned  nebody  on 
earth,  save  herself  and  Alan ;  a  matter  on  which 


thl:  woman  who  did. 


73 


it  was  the  grossest  impertinence  for  any  one 
else  to  make  any  inquiry  or  hold  any  opinion. 
They  two  chose  to  be  friends ;  and  there,  so 
far  as  the  rest  of  the  world  was  concerned,  the 
whole  thing  ended.  What  else  took  place 
between  them  was  wholly  a  subject  for  their 
own  consideration.  lUit  if  ever  circumstances 
should  arise  which  made  it  necessary  for  her  to 
avow  to  the  world  that  she  must  soon  be  a 
mother,  then  it  was  for  the  world  to  take  the 
first  step,  if  it  would  act  upon  its  own  hateful 
and  cruel  initiative.  She  would  never  den}^ 
but  she  would  never  go  out  of  her  way  to  confess. 
She  stood  upon  her  individuality  as  a  human  being. 
As  to  other  practical  matters,  about  which 
Alan  ventured  delicately  ♦:o  throw  out  a  pass- 
ing question  or  two,  Herminia  was  perfectly 
frank,  with  the  perfect  frankness  of  one  who 
thinks  and  does  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 
She  had  always  been  self-supporting,  she  said, 
and  she  would  be  self-supporting  still.  To  her 
mind,  that  was  an  essential  step  towards  the 
emancipation  of  women.  Their  friendship  im- 
plied for  her  no  change  of  existence,  merely  an 
addition  to  the  fulness  of  her  living.  Me  was 
the  complement  of  her  being.  Every  woman 
should  naturally  wish  to  live  her  whole  life,  to 
fulfil  her  whole  functions;  and  that  she  could  do 
only  by  becoming  a  mother,  accepting  the  orbit 


74 


THE  WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


11 

n 


for  which  nature  designed  her.  In  tlie  end,  no 
doubt,  coniidcte  independence  would  be  secured 
for  each  woman  l)y  the  civilized  state,  or  in 
other  words  by  the  whole  body  of  men,  who  do 
the  hard  work  of  the  wurld,  and  who  would  col- 
lectively guarantee  every  necessary  and  luxury 
to  every  woman  of  the  community  equally.  In 
that  way  alone  could  perfeci  liberty  of  choice 
and  action  be  secured  for  women;  and  she  held 
it  just  that  women  should  so  be  provided  for, 
because  the  mothers  of  the  community  fulfil  in 
the  state  as  important  and  necessary  a  function 
as  the  men  themselves  do.  It  would  be  well, 
too,  that  the  mothers  shou  1  be  free  to  perform 
that  function  without  preoccujiation  of  any  sort. 
So  a  free  world  would  order  things.  lUit  in 
our  present  barbaric  state  of  industrial  slavery, 
capitalism,  monopoly,  —  in  other  word.;  under 
the  organized  rule  of  selfishness, — such  a 
course  was  impossible.  Perhaps,  as  an  inter- 
mediate condition,  it  might  happen  in  time 
that  the  women  of  certain  classes  would  for  the 
most  part  be  made  independent  at  maturity 
each  by  her  own  father;  which  would  produce 
for  them  in  the  end  pretty  much  the  same  gen- 
eral effect  of  freedom.  She  saw  as  a  first  step 
the  endowment  of  the  daughter.  But  mean- 
while there  was  nothing  for  it  save  that  as 
many  women    as  could  should    aim  for   them- 


f   ^r 


Hi 


TIIK   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


75 


selves  at  economic  liberty,  in  other  words  at 
self-support.  That  was  an  evil  in  itself,  because 
obviously  the  prospective  mothers  of  a  con\- 
munity  should  be  relieved  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  stress  and  strain  of  earning  a  liveli- 
hood; should  be  set  free  to  build  up  their 
nervous  systems  to  the  hi<^^hest  attainable  level 
against  the  calls  of  maternity.  lUit  above  all 
things  we  must  be  practical;  and  in  the  prac- 
tical world  here  and  now  around  us,  no  other 
way  existed  for  women  to  be  free  save  the 
wasteful  way  of  each  earning  her  own  liveli- 
hood. Therefore  she  would  continue  her  school- 
work  with  her  pupils  as  long  as  the  school 
would  allow  her;  and  when  that  became  impos- 
sible, would  fall  back  upon  literature. 

One  other  question  Alan  ventured  gently  to 
raise, —  the  question  of  children.  Fools  always 
put  that  question,  and  think  it  a  crushing  one. 
Alan  was  no  fool,  yet  it  puzzled  him  strangely. 
He  did  not  see  for  himself  how  easy  is  the  so- 
lution; how  absolutely  Herminia's  plan  leaves 
the  position  unaltered.  lUit  Herminia  herself 
was  as  modestly  frank  on  the  subject  as  on 
every  other.  It  was  a  moral  and  social  point 
of  the  deepest  importance;  and  it  would  be 
wrong  of  them  to  rush  into  it  without  due  con- 
sideration. She  had  duly  considered  it.  She 
would  give  her  children,  should  any  come,  the 
unique    and    glorious    birthright    of    being    the 


i'  i 


'i 


II 


76 


Till:   WOMAN    WHO   DID. 


only  liiiman  beings  ever  born  into  this  world 
as  the  deliberate  result  of  a  free  union,  con- 
tracted on  philosophical  and  ethical  principles. 
Alan  hinted  certain  doubts  as  to  their  ui)-l)rin<;- 
in^  and  education.  There,  too,  lierminia  was 
perfectly  frank.  They  would  be  half  hers,  half 
his;  the  i)lcasant  burden  of  their  support,  the 
joy  of  their  education,  woul  1  naturally  fall  ujxm 
both  parents  equally.  lUit  why  discuss  these 
matters  like  the  squalid  rich,  who  make  their 
marria<;es  a  question  of  SLttlements  and  dow- 
ries and  business  arran^^ements.'^  They  two 
were  friends  and  lovers;  in  U)ve,  such  base 
doubts  could  never  arise.  Nut  for  worlds 
would  she  import  into  their  mutual  relations 
any  sordid  stain  of  money,  any  vile  tin<;e  of 
bargaining.  They  could  trust  one  another; 
that  alone  sufficed  for  them. 

So  Alan  gave  way  bit  by  bit  all  along  the 
line,  overborne  by  Ilerminia's  more  perfect 
and  logical  conception  of  her  own  principles. 
She  knew  exactly  what  she  felt  and  wanted; 
while  he  knew  only  in  a  vague  and  formless 
way  that  his  reason  agreed  with   her. 

A  week  later,  he  knocked  timidly  one  evening 
at  the  door  of  a  modest  little  workman-looking 
cottage,  down  a  small  side  street  in  the  back- 
wastes  of  Chelsea.  'Twas  a  most  unpretending 
street;  Bower  Lane  by  name,  full  of  brown 
brick    houses,    all    as    like   as    peas,    and    with 


Tin;   WOMAN    WHO    IJIU. 


)V 


nothiiit;  of  any  sort  to  rcilcLMii  their  phun  fronts 
from  tlic  common  l)lii;ht  of  the  Lontlon  jcrry- 
hmlclcr.  C)nly  a  soft  serine  curtain  atul  a  i)(»t  of 
mi;^nonotto  on  the  Icd^c  of  the  vvinch)\v,  dis- 
tin.i;ui shell  tiie  cotta,i;e  at  which  Ahm  Merrick 
knocked  from  the  others  beside  it.  Kxternally 
tliat  is  to  say;  for  within  it  was  as  dainty  as 
Morris  wall-papers  and  meritio  hanfjings  and 
a  delicate  feminine  taste  in  form  and  color 
could  make  it.  Keats  and  Shelley  lined  the 
shelves;  Rossetti's  wan  maidens  gazed  un- 
earthly from  the  over-mantel.  The  door  was 
opened  for  him  by  Herminia  in  person;  for  she 
kept  no  servant,  —  that  was  one  of  her  prin- 
ciples. She  was  dressed  from  head  to  foot  in 
a  simple  white  gown,  as  pure  and  sweet  as  the 
soul  it  covered.  A  white  rose  nestled  in  her 
glossy  hair;  three  sprays  of  white  lily  decked 
a  vase  on  the  mantel-piece.  Some  dim  sur- 
vival of  ancestral  '/'.  -as  made  Herminia  Barton 
so  array  her^eU  m  ihe  white  garb  of  affiance 
for  her  briJr. '  e^'eciiig.  Her  cheek  was  aglow 
with  virg»r  i!  ,hrin'  .ng  as  she  opened  the  door, 
and  welcomed  Alun  in.  l^ut  she  held  out  her 
hand  just  as  frankly  as  ever  to  the  man  of  her 
free  choice  as  he  advanced  to  greet  her.  Alan 
caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  forehead 
tenderly.  And  thus  was  Herminia  Barton's 
espousal  consummated. 


m 


'Mj 


1 


11 


! 


78 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


VII. 

The  next  six  months  were  the  happiest  time  ot 
her  life,  for  Ilerminia.  All  day  long  she  worked 
hard  with  her  classes;  and  often  in  the  even 
ings  ^lan  Merrick  dropped  in  for  sweet  con- 
verse and  companionship.  Too  free  from  any 
taint  of  sin  or  shame  herself  ever  to  suspect 
that  others  could  misinterpret  her  actions, 
Hcrminia  was  hardly  aware  how  the  gossip  of 
Bower  Lane  made  free  in  time  with  the  name 
of  the  young  lady  who  had  taken  a  cottage  in 
the  row,  and  whose  relations  with  the  tall 
gentleman  that  called  so  much  in  the  evenings 
were  beginning  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
neighborhood.  The  poor  slaves  of  washer- 
women and  working  men's  wives  all  around, 
with  whom  contented  slavery  to  a  drunken  hus- 
band was  the  only  "respectable"  condition,  — 
couldn't  understand  for  the  life  of  them  how 
the  pretty  young  lady  could  make  her  name  so 
cheap;  "and  her  that  jjretends  to  be  so  chari- 
table and  that,  and  goes  about  in  the  parish 
like  a  district  visitor!"     Though  to  be  sure  it 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


79 


had  already  struck  the  minds  of  Bower  Lane 
that  Herminia  never  went  "to  church  nor 
chapel;"  and  when  people  cut  themselves 
adrift  from  church  and  chapel,  why,  what 
sort  of  morality  can  you  reasonably  expect  of 
them?  Nevertheless,  Herminia's  manners  were 
so  sweet  and  engagin;^,  to  rich  and  poor  alike, 
that  Bower  Lane  seriously  regretted  what  it 
took  to  be  her  lapse  from  grace.  Poor  purblind 
liower  Lane!  A  life-time  would  have  failed  it 
to  discern  for  itself  how  infinitely  higher  than 
its  slavish  "respectability"  was  Herminia's 
freedom.  In  which  respect,  indeed,  Bower  Lane 
was  no  doubt  on  a  dead  level  with  Belgravia,  or, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  with  Lambeth  Palace. 

But  Herminia,  for  her  part,  never  discovered 
she  was  talked  about.  To  the  pure  all  things 
are  pure;  and  Herminia  was  dowered  with  that 
perfect  purity.  And  though  Bower  Lane  lay 
but  some  few  hundred  yards  off  from  the 
Carlyle  Place  Girl's  School,  the  social  gulf 
between  them  yet  yawned  so  wide  that  good 
old  Miss  Smith-Waters  from  Cambridge,  the 
head-mistress  of  the  school,  never  caught  a 
single  echo  of  the  waslierwomen's  gossip. 
Herminia's  life  through  those  six  montlis  was 
one  uncUnuled  honeymoon.  On  Sundays,  she 
and  Alan  would  go  out  of  town  together,  and 
stroll  across  the  breezy  summit  of   Leith  Hill, 


!i  ■  ■ 


m 


80 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


■' 


I 


or  among  the  brown  heather  and  garrulous 
pine-woods  that  perfume  the  radiating  spurs  of 
Hind  Head  with  their  aromatic  resins.  Her 
love  for  Alan  was  profound  and  absorbing; 
while  as  for  Alan,  the  more  he  gazed  into  the 
calm  dcjDths  of  that  crystal  soul,  the  more 
deeply  difl  he  admire  it.  Gradually  she  was 
raising  him  to  her  own  level.  It  is  impossible"^ 
to  mix  with  a  lofty  nature  and  not  acquire  in  \ 
time  some  tincture  of  its  nobler  and  more  gen- 
erous sentiments.  Ilerminia  was  weaning  Alan 
by  degrees  from  the  world;  she  was  teaching 
him  to  see  that  moral  purity  and  moral  earnest- 
ness are  worth  more,  after  all,  than  to  dwell  with 
purple  hangings  in  all  the  tents  of  iniquity. 
She  was  making  him  understand  and  sympathize 
with  the  motives  which  led  her  stoutly  on  to 
her  final  martyrdom,  which  made  her  submit 
without  a  murmur  of  discontent  to  her  great 
renunciation. 

As  yet,  however,  there  was  no  hint  or  fore- 
cast of  actual  martyrdom.  On  the  contrary, 
^her  life  flowed  in  all  the  halo  of  a  honeymoon.  >^ 
It  was  a  honeymoon,  too,  undisturbed  by  the 
petty  jars  and  discomforts  of  domestic  life; 
she  saw  Alan  too  seldom  for  either  ever  to  lose 
the  keen  sense  of  fresh  delight  in  the  other's 
presence.  When  she  met  him,  she  thrilled  to 
the  delicate  finger-tips.      Herminia  had  planned 


y^ 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


8l 


y 


\ 


it  so  of  set  purpose.  In  her  reasoned  philos- 
ophy of  life,  she  had  early  decided  that  't  is 
the  wear  and  tear  of  too  close  daily  intercourse 
which  turns  unawares  the  lover  into  the  hus- 
band; and  she  had  determined  that  in  her  own 
converse  with  the  man  she  loved  that  cause  of 
disillusion  should  never  intrude  itself.  They 
conserved  their  romance  thrc)U,L;h  all  their 
plighted  and  united  life,  llerminia  had  after- 
wards no  recollections  of  Alan  to  look  back 
upon  save  ideally  happy  ones. 

So  six  months  wore  away  On  the  memory 
of  those  six  months  Herminia  was  to  subsist 
for  half  a  lifetime.  At  the  end  of  that  time, 
Alan  began  to  fear  that  if  she  did  not  soon 
withdraw  from  the  Carlyle  Place  School,  Miss 
Smith-Waters  might  begin  to  ask  inconvenient 
questions.  Herminia,  ever  true  to  her  prin- 
ciples, was  for  stopping  on  till  the  bitter  end, 
and  compelling  Miss  Smith-Waters  to  dismiss 
her  from  her  situation.  But  Alan,  more  worldly 
wise,  foresaw  that  such  a  course  must  inevitably 
result  in  needless  annoyance  and  humiliation 
for  Herminia;  and  Herminia  was  now  begin- 
ning to  be  so  far  influenced  by  Alan's  jjerson- 
ality  that  she  yielded  the  point  with  reluctance 
to  his  masculine  judgment.  It  must  be  always 
so.  The  man  must  needs  retain  for  many  years 
to  come  the  personal  hegemony  he  has  usurped 


( \  \ 


;! 


f 


,,  ( 


■'  1 

.  i 

'  j 

:r: 


82 


TIIK  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


X 


V 


/'  over  the  woman ;  and  the  woman  who  once  ac- 
cepts him  as  lover  or  as  husband  must  give 
way  in  the  end,  even  in  matters  of  princijile, 
to  his  virile  self-assertion.  She  would  be  less 
a  woman,  and  he  less  a  man,  were  any  other 
result  possible.  Deep  down  in  the  very  roots 
of  the  idea  of  sex  we  come  on  that  prime 
antithesis,  —  the  male,  active  and  agg;ressivc; 
x^  the  female,  sedentary,  passive,  and  receptive. 
And  even  on  the  broader  question,  experience 
shows  one  it  is  always  so  in  the  world  we  live 
in.  No  man  or  woman  can  go  through  life  in 
consistent  obedience  to  any  high  principle,  — 
not  even  the  willing  and  deliberate  martyrs. 
We  must  bow  to  circumstances.  Herminia  had 
made  up  her  mind  beforehand  for  the  crown 
of  martyrdom,  the  one  possible  guerdon  this 
planet  can  bestow  upon  really  noble  and  disin- 
terested action.  And  she  never  shrank  from 
any  necessary  pang,  incidental  to  the  prophet's 
and  martyr's  existence.  Yet  even  so,  in  a 
society  almost  wholly  composed  of  mean  and 
petty  souls,  incapable  of  comprehending  or 
appreciating  any  exalted  moral  standpoint,  it 
is  practically  impossible  to  live  from  day  to 
day  in  accordance  with  a  higher  or  purer 
standard.  The  martyr  who  should  try  so  to  walk 
without  deviation  of  any  sort,  turning  neither 
to  the  right  nor  to  the  left  in  the  smalh^st  par- 


i  i 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   HID. 


83 


ticular,  must  accomplish  riis  murtyrilom  pre- 
maturely on  the  pettiest  side-issues,  asul  would 
never  live  at  all  to  assert  at  the  stake  the  <;reat 
truth  which  is  the  lodestar  and  goal  of  his 
existence. 

So  Herminia  ^^ave  way.  Sadly  aj^ainst  her 
will  she  gave  way.  One  morning  in  early 
March,  she  absented  herself  from  her  place  in 
the  class-room  without  even  taking  leave  of 
her  beloved  schoolgirls,  whom  she  had  tried 
so  hard  unobtrusively  to  train  up  towards  a 
rational  understanding  of  the  universe  around 
them,  and  sat  down  to  write  a  final  letter  of 
farewell  to  poor  straight-laced  kind-hearted 
Miss  Smith-Waters.  She  sat  down  to  it  with 
a  sigh;  for  Miss  Smith-Waters,  though  her  out- 
look upon  the  cosmos  was  through  one  narrow 
chink,  was  a  good  soul  up  to  her  lights,  and 
had  been  really  fond  and  proud  of  Herminia. 
She  had  rather  shown  her  off,  indeed,  as  a 
social  trump  card  to  the  hesitating  parent,  — 
"This  is  our  second  mistress,  Miss  l^arton ;  you 
know  her  father,  jierhaps;  such  an  exxellont 
man,  the  Dean  of  Dunwich. "  And  now,  Her- 
minia sat  down  with  a  heavy  heart,  thinking  to 
herself  what  a  stab  of  pain  the  avowal  she  had 
to  make  would  send  tlir()l)i)iiig  through  that 
gentle  old  breast,  and  how  absolutely  incai)able 
dear  Miss  Smith-Waters  could  be  of  ever  appre- 


!  .1 


84 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


I«.:L 


ciatinpj  the  conscientioas  reasons  which  had 
led  her,  Iphigenia-like,  to  her  self-imposed 
sacrifice. 

]^ut,  for  all  that,  she  vyrote  her  letter  through, 
delicately,  sweetly,  with  feminine  tact  and  fem- 
inine reticence.  She  told  Miss  Smith-Waters 
frankly  enouL^h  all  it  was  necessary  Miss  Smith- 
Waters  should  know;  but  she  said  it  with  such 
daintiness  that  even  that  conventionalized  and 
hide-bound  old  maid  couldn't  help  feeling  and 
recognizing  the  purity  and  nobility  of  her  mis- 
guided action.  Poor  child.  Miss  Smith-Waters 
thought;  she  was  mi «:■  taken,  of  course,  sadly  and 
grievously  mistaken;  but,  then,  'twas  her  heart 
that  misled  her,  no  doubt;  and  Miss  Smith- 
Waters,  having  dim  recollections  of  a  far-away 
time  when  she  herself  too  possessed  some  rudi- 
mentary fragment  of  such  a  central  vascular 
organ,  fairly  cried  over  the  poor  girl's  letter 
with  sympathetic  shame,  and  remorse,  and  vex- 
ation. Miss  Smith- Waters  could  hardly  be 
expected  to  understand  that  if  Herminia  had 
thought  her  conduct  in  the  faintest  degree 
wrong,  or  indeed  anything  but  the  highest  and 
best  for  humanity,  she  could  never  conceivably 
have  allowed  even  that  loving  heart  of  hers  to 
hurry  her  into  it.  For  Herminia's  devotion  to 
principle  was  not  less  but  far  greater  than 
Miss  Sm?ch-Waters's  own;  only,  as  it  happened. 


J 


TirE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


ff 


the    principles    themselves   were   diametrically 
opposite. 

Herminia  vvro.c  her  note  with  not  a  few  tears 
for  poor  Miss  Smith-Waters 's  disappointment. 
That  is  the  worst  of  living  a  life  morally  ahead 
of  your  contemporaries;  what  you  do  with  pro- 
foundest  conviction  of  its  eternal  ri,f;htness  can- 
not fail  to  arouse  hostile  and  painful  feelings 
even  in  tl  e  souls  of  the  most  rij^ht-minded  of 
your  friends  who  still  live  in  bt)nda;;e  to  the 
conventional  lies  and  the  conventional  injus- 
tices. It  is  the  good,  indeed,  who  are  most 
against  you.  Still,  Herminia  steeled  her  heart 
i:o  tell  the  simple  truth, — how,  for  the  right's 
sake  and  humanity's  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  eschew  the  accursed  thing,  and  to  strike 
one  bold  blow  for  the  freedom  and  unfettered 
individuality  of  women.  She  knew  in  what 
obloquy  her  action  would  involve  her,  she  said; 
but  she  know  too,  that  to  do  right  for  right's 
sake  was  a  duty  imposed  by  nature  upon  every 
one  of  us;  and  that  the  clearer  we  could  sec 
ahead,  and  the  farther  in  front  we  could  h^ik, 
the  more  profoundly  did  that  duty  shine  forth 
ior  us.  For  her  own  part,  she  had  never  shrunk 
from  doing  what  she  knew  to  ]ie  right  for  man- 
kind in  the  end,  tliough  she  Iclt  sure  it  must 
lead  her  to  personal  misery.  Vet  unless  one 
woman  were  prepared  to  lead  the  way,  no  free- 


>  ii  J 


I 


Ill 


86 


THK  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


h  s 


(lorn  was  possible.  She  had  found  a  man  with 
whom  she  could  spend  her  life  in  sympathy  and 
united  usefulness;  and  with  him  she  iiad  elected 
to  spend  it  in  the  way  pointed  out  to  us  by 
nature.  Actinj;  on  his  advice,  though  some- 
what against  her  own  judgment,  she  meant  to 
leave  I^ngland  for  the  present,  only  returning 
again  when  she  could  return  with  the  dear  life 
they  had  botli  been  instrumental  in  bringing 
into  the  world,  and  to  which  henceforth  her 
main  attention  must  be  directed.  She  signed  it, 
"Your  ever  grateful  and  devotcfl  IIkrmima." 

Poor  Miss  Smith -Waters  laid  down  that  as- 
tonishing, that  incredible  letter  in  a  perfect 
whirl  of  amazement  and  stupefaction.  She 
did  n't  know  what  to  make  of  it.  It  seemed 
to  run  counter  to  all  her  preconceived  ideas  of 
moral  action.  That  a  young  girl  should  ven- 
ture to  think  for  herself  at  all  about  right  and 
wrong  was  passing  strange;  that  she  should 
arrive  at  original  notions  upon  those  abstruse 
su])jects,  which  were  not  the  notions  of  con- 
stituted authority  and  of  the  universal  slave- 
drivers  and  ol)scurantists  generally,  —  notions 
full  of  luminousness  upon  the  real  relations 
and  duties  of  our  race,  — was  to  poor,  cramped 
Miss  Smith-Waters  well-nigh  inconceivable. 
That  a  young  girl  should  prefer  freedom  to 
slavery;  should  deem   it  more  moral   to   retain 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  uin. 


87 


her  divincly-confcrrccl  individuality  iji  spitj  of 
the  world  than  to  yield  it  up  to  a  man  for  life 
in  return  for  the  priee  of  her  board  and  lodij- 
in.i;;  should  refuse  to  sell  her  own  body  for  a 
eomfortable  home  and  the  shelter  of  a  name,  — 
these  things  seemed  to  Miss  Smith-Waters, 
with  her  smaller-cateehism  standards  of  riL^ht 
and  vvron<2^,  scarcely  short  of  sheer  madness. 
Yet  Ilerminia  had  so  endeared  herself  to  the 
old  lady's  soul  that  on  receipt  of  her  letter 
Miss  Smith-Waters  went  upstairs  to  her  own 
room  with  a  neuralj^ic  headache,  and  never 
again  in  her  life  referred  to  her  late  second 
mistress  in  any  other  terms  than  as  "my  poor 
dear  sweet  misguided  Ilerminia." 

But  when  it  became  known  next  morning  in 
Bower  Lane  that  the  queenly-looking  school- 
mistress who  used  to  go  round  among  "our 
girls  "  with  tickets  for  concerts  and  lectures 
and  that,  had  disappeared  suddenly  with  the 
nice-looking  young  man  who  used  to  come 
a-courting  her  on  Sumlays  and  evenings,  the 
amazement  and  surprise  of  respectable  Bower 
Lane  was  simply  unbounded.  "  Who  would  have 
thought,"  the  red-faced  matrons  of  the  cottages 
remarked,  over  their  quart  of  bitter,  "the  pore 
thing  had  it  in  her!  But  there,  it  's  these 
demure  ones  as  is  always  the  slyest!"  For 
Bower  Lane  could  only  judge  that  austere  soul 


li 


ijl! 


88 


THE   WUMAN    WHO   DHJ. 


by  its  own  vulj^ar  standard  (us  did  also  Bcl- 
};ravia).  Most  low  minils,  indeed,  imagine  abso- 
lute hypocrisy  must  be  involved  in  any  striving 
after  j;oodness  and  abstract  ri^ht-doinj;  on  the 
l)art  ot  any  who  hapj^en  to  disbelieve  in  their 
own  bloou-thirsty  deities,  or  their  own  vile 
wonian-degradin<^and  i)rostitutin<^Miiorality.  In 
the  topsy-turvy  philosophy  of  Bower  Lane  and 
of  Belgravia,  what  is  usual  is  rii^ht;  while  any 
conscious  striving;  to  be  better  and  nobler  than 
the  mass  around  one  is  regarded  at  once  as 
either  insane  or  criminal. 


t 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   UlU. 


89 


VIII. 


^il 


TiiEY  were  bound  for  Italy;  so  Alan  had  de- 
cided. Turninj^  over  in  his  mind  the  pros  and 
cons  of  the  situation,  he  had  wisely  determined 
that  Ilcrminia's  confinement  had  better  take 
place  somewhere  else  than  in  lCn<;land.  The 
difficulties  and  inconveniences  which  block  the 
way  in  English  lod<;ings  would  have  been  well- 
nigh  insufferable;  in  Italy,  people  would  only 
know  that  an  English  signora  and  her  husband 
had  taken  apartments  for  a  month  or  two  in 
some  solemn  old  palazzo.  To  Herminia,  in- 
deed, this  expatriation  at  such  a  moment  was 
in  many  ways  to  the  last  degree  distasteful;  for 
her  own  part,  she  hated  the  merest  appearance 
of  concealment,  and  would  rather  have  flaunted 
the  open  expression  of  her  supreme  moral  faith 
before  the  eyes  of  all  London.  lUit  Alan 
pointed  out  to  her  the  many  practical  difficul- 
ties, amounting  almost  to  impossibilities,  which 
beset  such  a  course;  and  Herminia,  though  it 
was  hateful  to  her  thus  to  yield  to  the  immoral 
prejudices  of  a  false  social  system,  gave  way 


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THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


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il 


at  last  to  Alan's  repeated  expression  of  the 
necessity  for  prudent  and  practical  action.  She 
would  go  with  him  to  Italy,  she  said,  as  a  proof 
of  her  affection  and  her  confidence  in  his  judg- 
ment, though  she  still  thought  the  right  thing 
was  to  stand  by  her  guns  fearlessly,  and  fight  it 
out  to  the  bitter  end  undismayed  in  England. 

On  the  morning  of  their  departure,  Alan 
called  to  see  his  father,  and  explain  the  situa- 
tion. He  felt  some  explanation  was  by  this 
time  necessary.  As  yet  no  one  in  London 
knew  anything  officially  as  to  his  relations  with 
Herminia;  and  for  Herminia's  sake,  Alan  had 
hitherto  kept  them  perfectly  private.  But  now, 
further  reticence  was  both  useless  and  undesir- 
able; he  determined  to  make  a  clean  breast  of 
the  whole  story  to  his  father.  It  was  early  for 
a  barrister  to  be  leaving  town  for  the  Easter 
vacation;  and  though  Alan  had  chambers  of 
his  own  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  where  he  lived  by 
himself,  he  was  so  ulten  in  and  out  of  the  house 
in  Harley  Street  that  his  absence  from  Lon- 
don would  at  once  have  attracted  the  parental 
attention. 

Dr.  Merrick  was  a  model  of  the  close-shaven 
clear-cut  London  consultant.  His  shirt-front 
was  as  impeccable  as  his  moral  character  was 
spotless  —  in  the  way  that  Belgravia  and  Har- 
ley Street  still   understood   spotlessness.      He 


I 

h 


c 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


91 


t 


was  tall  and  straight,  and  unbent  by  age;  the 
professional  poker  which  he  had  swallowed  in 
early  life  seemed  to  stand  him  in  good  stead 
after  sixty  years,  though  his  hair  had  whitened 
fast,  and  his  brow  was  furrowed  with  most 
deliberative  wrinkles.  So  unapproachable  he 
looked,  that  not  even  his  own  sons  dared  speak 
frankly  before  him.  His  very  smile  was  re- 
strained; he  hardly  permitted  himself  for  a 
moment  that  weak  human  relaxation. 

Alan    called   at    Harley    Street    immediately 
after  breakfast,  just  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before 
the  time  allotted  to  his  father's  first   patient. 
Dr.    Merrick  received   him    in  the  consultinir- 
room    with   an    interrogative    raising   of    those 
straight,  thin  eyebrows.     The  mere  look  on  his 
face  disconcerted  Alan.     With  an  effort  the  son 
began    and    explained   his    errand.      His  father 
settled  himself  down  into  his  ample  and  digni- 
fied professional  chair  —  old  oak  round-backed, 
—  and  with  head  half  turned,  and  hands  folded 
in  front  of  him,  seemed  to  diagnose  with  rapt 
attention   this  singular  form    of   psychological 
malady.     When  Alan   paused  for  a  second  be- 
tween  his    halting    sentences    and    floundered 
about  in  search  of  a  more  delicate  way  of  glid- 
ing  over    the   thin    ice,    his    father   eyed    him 
closely  with  those  keen,  gray  orbs,  and  after  a 
moment's  hesitation  put  in  a  "Well,  continue," 


1 


1! 


r 


.(■  I . 


92 


THE  WOMAN   WHO  DID. 


H,! 


i  J  ' 


I  li 


without  the  faintest  sign  of  any  human  emotion. 
Alan,  thus  driven  to  it,  admitted  awkwardly  bit 
by  bit  that  he  was  leaving  London  before  the 
end  of  term  because  he  had  managed  to  get 
himself  into  delicate  relations  with  a  lady. 

Dr.  Merrick  twirled  his  thumbs,  and  in  a 
colorless  voice  enquired,  without  relaxing  a 
muscle  of  his  set  face, 

"What  sort  of  lady,  please?  A  lady  of  the 
ballet?" 

"Oh,  no!  "  Alan  cried,  giving  a  little  start  of 
horror.  "Quite  different  from  that.  A  real 
lady." 

"They  always  ajr  real  ladies,  — for  the  most 
part  brought  down  by  untoward  circumstances," 
his  father  responded  coldly.  "  As  a  rule,  indeed, 
I  observe,  they're  clergyman's  daughters." 

"This  one  is,"  Alan  answered,  growing  hot. 
"  In  point  of  fact,  to  prevent  your  saying  any- 
thing you  might  afterwards  regret,  I  think  I  'd 
better  mention  the  lady's  name.  It  's  Miss 
Herminia  Barton,  the  Dean  of  Dunwich's 
daughter." 

His  father  drew  a  long  breath.  The  corners 
of  the  clear-cut  mouth  dropped  down  for  a 
second,  and  the  straight,  thin  eyebrows  were 
momentarily  elevated.  But  he  gave  no  other 
overt  sign  of  dismay  or  astonishment. 

"That  makes  a  great  difference,  of  course," 


, 


t 


'!■■' 


THE  WOMAN   WHO  DID. 


93 


■ 


he  answered,  after  a  long  pause.  "  She  is  a 
lady,  I  admit.     And  she  's  been  to  Girton." 

"She  has,"  the  son  replied,  scarcely  knowing 
how  to  continue. 

Dr.  Merrick  twirled  his  thumbs  once  more, 
with  outward  calm,  for  a  minute  or  two.  This 
was  most  inconvenient  in  a  professional  family. 

"And  I  understand  you  to  say,"  he  went  on  in 
a  pitiless  voice,  "Miss  Barton's  state  of  health 
is  such  that  you  think  it  advisable  to  remove 
her  at  once  —  for  her  confinement,  to  Italy  .^  " 

"Exactly  so,"  Alan  answered,  gulping  down 
his  discomfort. 

The  father  gazed  at  him  long  and  steadily. 

"Well,  I  always  knew  you  were  a  fool,"  he 
said  at  last  with  paternal  candor;  "but  I  never 
yet  knew  you  were  quite  such  a  fool  as  this 
business  shows  you.  You  '11  have  to  marry  the 
girl  now  in  the  end.  Why  the  devil  could  n't 
you  marry  her  outright  at  first,  instead  of  se- 
ducing her.!*  " 

"  I  did  not  seduce  her,"  Alan  answered  stoutly. 
"No  man  on  earth  could  ever  succeed  in  seduc- 
ing that  stainless  woman." 

Dr.  Merrick  stared  hard  at  him  without 
changing  his  attitude  on  his  old  oak  chair. 
Was  the  boy  going  mad,  or  what  the  dickens 
did  he  mean  by  it.^ 

"You    /lave    seduced   her,"    he   said   slowly. 


:f1 


fi: 


:.h 


I! 


r 


I' 


■  '  r 

'    ■      1 


i' 


-f  ■■    f 


94  THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 

"And  she  is  ;iot  stainless  if  she  has  allowed 
you  to  do  so." 

"  It  is  the  innocence  which  survives  experience 
that  I  value,  not  the  innocence  which  dies  with 
it,"  Alan  answered  gravely. 

"I  don't  understand  these  delicate  distinc- 
tions," Dr.  Merrick  interposed  with  a  polite 
sneer.  "  I  gather  from  what  you  said  just  now 
that  the  lady  is  shortly  expecting  her  confine- 
ment; and  as  she  isn't  married,  you  tell  me,  I 
naturally  infer  that  somebody  must  have  seduced 
her  —  either  you,  or  some  other  man." 

It  wa.':  Alan's  turn  now  to  draw  himself  up 
very  stiffly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  answered;  "you 
have  no  right  to  speak  in  such  a  tone  about  a 
lady  in  Miss  Barton's  position.  Miss  Barton 
has  conscientious  scruples  about  the  marriage- 
tie,  which  in  theory  I  share  with  her;  she  was 
unwilling  to  enter  into  any  relations  with  me 
except  on  terms  of  perfect  freedom." 

"I  see,"  the  old  man  went  on  with  provoking 
calmness.  "  She  preferred,  in  fact,  to  be,  not 
your  wife,  but  your  mistress." 

Alan  rose  indignantly.  "Father,"  he  said, 
with  just  wrath,  "if  you  insist  upon  discussing 
this  matter  with  me  in  such  a  spirit,  I  must 
refuse  to  stay  here.  I  came  to  tell  you  the 
difficulty  in  which  I  find  myself,  and  to  explain 


I 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


95 


to  you  my  position.  If  you  won't  let  mc  tell 
you  in  my  own  way,  I  must  leave  the  house 
without  having  laid  the  facts  before  you." 

The  father  spread  his  two  palms  in  front  of 
him  with  demonstrative  openness.  "  As  you 
will,"  he  answered.  "My  time  is  much  engaged. 
I  expect  a  patient  at  a  quarter  past  ten.  You 
must  be  brief,  please." 

Alan  made  one  more  effort.  In  a  very 
earnest  voice,  he  began  to  expound  to  his 
father  Herminia's  point  of  view.  Dr.  Merrick 
listened  for  a  second  or  two  in  calm  impatience. 
Then  he  consulted  his  watch.  "  Excuse  me,"  he 
said.  "I  have  just  three  minutes.  Let  us  get 
at  once  to  the  practical  part  —  the  therapeutics 
of  the  case,  omitting  its  aetiology.  You  're  go- 
ing to  take  the  young  lady  to  Italy.  When  she 
gets  there,  will  she  marry  you  .^^  And  do  you 
expect  me  to  help  in  providing  for  you  both 
after  this  insane  adventure.^" 

Alan's  face  was  red  as  fire.  "She  will  not 
marry  me  when  she  gets  to  Italy,"  he  answered 
decisively.  "And  I  don't  want  you  to  do  any- 
thing to  provide  for  either  of  us." 

The  father  looked  at  him  with  the  face  he 
was  wont  to  assume  in  scanning  the  appearance 
of  a  confirmed  monomaniac.  "She  will  not 
marry  you,"  he  answered  slowly;  "and  you 
intend  to  go  on  living  with  her  in  open  con- 


it 


■  !    H 

ill 


f 


96 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


cubinage!  A  lady  of  birth  and  position!  Is 
that  your  meaning?" 

"Father,"  Alan  cried  despairingly,  "  Her- 
minia  would  not  consent  to  live  with  me  on 
any  other  terms.  To  her  it  would  be  disgraceful, 
shameful,  a  sin,  a  reproach,  a  dereliction  of 
principle.  She  could  nt  go  back  upon  her 
whole  past  life.  She  lives  for  nothing  else 
but  the  emancipation  of  women." 

"And  you  will  aid  and  abet  her  in  her  folly.!*" 
the  father  asked,  looking  up  sharply  at  him. 
"You  will  persist  in  this  evil  course.-*  You 
will  face  the  world  and  openly  defy  morality.^  " 

"  I  will  not  counsel  the  woman  I  most  love 
and  admire  to  purchase  her  own  case  by  prov- 
ing  false  to  her  convictions,"  Alan  answered 
stoutly. 

Dr.  Merrick  gazed  at  the  watch  on  his  table 
once  more.  Then  he  rose  and  rang  the  bell. 
"Patient  here.'*"  he  asked  curtly.  "  Show  him 
in  then  at  once.  And,  Napper,  if  Mr.  Alan 
Merrick  ever  calls  again,  will  you  tell  him  I  'm 
out.^  —  and  your  mistress  as  well,  and  all  the 
young  ladies."  He  turned  coldly  to  Alan.  "I 
must  guard  your  mother  and  sisters  at  least," 
he  said  in  a  chilly  voice,  "from  the  contamina- 
tion of  this  woman's  opinions." 

Alan  bowed  without  a  word,  and  left  the  room. 
He  never  again  saw  the  face  of  his  father. 


■■■? 


1 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


97 


IX. 


Alan  Merrick  strode  from  his  father's  door 
that  day  stung  with  a  burning  sense  of  wrong 
and  injustice.     More  than  ever  before  in  his  life 
he  realized  to  himself  the  abject  hollowness  of 
that  conventional   code  which   masquerades   in 
our  midst  as  a  system  of  morals.      If  he   had 
continued  to  "live  single  "  as  we  hypocritically 
phrase  it,  and  so  helped  by  one  unit  to  spread 
the  festering  social  canker  of  prostitution,  on 
which  as  basis,  like  some   mediaeval   castle  on 
its  foul  dungeon  vaults,  the  entire  superstruc- 
ture of  our  outwardly  decent  modern  society  is 
reared,  his  father  no  doubt  would  have  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and    blinked    his  cold    eyes,   and 
commended  the  wise  young  man  for  abstaining  \ 
from  marriage  till  his  means  could  permit  him    ! 
to  keep  a  wife  of  his  own  class  in  the  way  she     j 
was  accustomed  to.      The  wretched   victims   of 
that  vile  system  might  die  unseen  and  unpitied 
in  some  hideous  back  slum,  without  touching  one 
chord  of   remorse  or   regret    in    Dr.    Merrick's 
nature. 

7 


He  was  steeled  against  their  sufferin"-. 


k 


\l     !. 


r 


08 


>- 


TlIK   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


1;, 


';iil 


(  ■ 

Ml 


iri 


iii:' 


'     i 


V 


^' 


Or  aj^ain,  if  Alan  had  sold  his  virility  for  f;old\ 
to  some  rich  heiress  of  his  set,  like  ICthel  Water- 
ton —  had  bartered  his  freedom  to  be  her  wedded 
paramour  in  a  loveless  marriage,  his  father  would 
not  only  have  {;ladly  acquiesced,  but  would 
have  conj^ratulated  his  son  on  his  luck  and  his  . 
prudence.  Yet,  because  Alan  had  chosen  rather 
to  form  a  blameless  union  of  pure  affection 
with  a  woman  who  was  in  every  way  his  moral 
and  mental  superior,  but  in  despite  of  the  con- 
ventional ban  of  society.  Dr.  Merrick  had  cast 
him  off  as  an  open  reprobate.  And  why.^ 
Simply  because  that  union  was  unsanctioned 
by  the  exponents  of  a  law  they  despised,  and 
unblessed  by  the  priests  of  a  creed  they  rejected. 
Alan  saw  at  once  it  is  not  the  intrinsic  moral 
value  of  an  act  such  people  think  about,  but 
the  light  in  which  it  is  regarded  by  a  selfish 
society. 

A  Unchastity,  it  has  been  well  said,  is  union 
/  without  love;  and  Aian  would  have  none  of  it. 
He  went  back  to  Hcrminia  more  than  ever 
convinced  of  that  spotless  woman's  moral  supe- 
riority to  every  one  else  he  had  ever  met  with. 
She  sat,  a  lonely  soul,  enthroned  amid  the  halo 
of  her  own  perfect  purity.  To  Alan,  she  seemed 
like  one  of  those  early  Italian  Madonnas,  lost 
in  a  glory  of  light  that  surrounds  and  half  hides 

[  them.     He  reverenced  her  far  too  much  to  tell 


V 


i. 


I 


l\ 


Till:   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


99 


I 


her  all  that  had  happened.  How  could  he 
wound  those  sweet  ears  with  his  father's  coarse 
epithets  ? 

They  took  the  club  train  that  afternoon  to 
Paris.  There  they  slept  the  nij^ht  in  a  fusty 
hotel  near  the  Gare  du  Nord,  and  went  on  in 
the  morning  by  the  daylight  express  to  Switzer- 
land. At  Lucerne  and  Milan  they  broke  the 
journey  once  more.  Herminia  had  never  yet 
gone  further  afield  from  England  than  Paris; 
and  this  first  glimpse  of  a  wider  world  was 
intensely  interesting  to  her.  Who  can  help"\ 
being  pleased,  indeed,  with  that  wonderful  St. 
Gothard  —  the  crystal  green  Reuss  shattering 
itself  in  white  spray  into  emerald  pools  by  the 
side  of  the  railway;  Wasen  church  perched 
high  upon  its  solitary  hilltop;  the  Biaschina 
ravine,  the  cleft  rocks  of  Faido,  the  serpen- 
tine twists  and  turns  of  the  lamping  line  as 
it  mounts  or  descends  its  spiral  zigzags.^ 
Dewy  Alpine  pasture,  tossed  masses  of  land- 
slip, white  narcissus  on  the  banks,  snowy  peaks 
in  the  background  —  all  alike  were  fresh  visions^ 
of  delight  to  Herminia;  and  she  drank  it  all  in 
with  the  pure  childish  joy  of  a  poetic  nature. 
It  was  the  Switzerland  of  her  dreams,  reinforced 
and  complemented  by  unsuspected  detail. 

One   trouble   alone   disturbed    her   peace   of 
mind     upon     that    delightful    journey.      Alan 


11 


M 


I  I 


it 
■j  t 


r 


100 


Till-:   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


Jl! 


i 


/' 


^ 


entered  their  names  at  all  the  hotels  where 
they  stopped  as  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alan  Merrick 
of  London."  That  deception,  as  Ilerminia  held 
it,  cost  her  many  qualms  of  conscience;  but 
Alan,  with  masculine  common-sense,  was  firm 
upon  the  point  that  no  other  description  was 
practically  possible;  and  Ilerminia  yielded  with 
a  sigh  to  his  greater  worldly  wisdom.  She  had 
yet  to  learn  the  lesson  which  sooner  or  later 
comes  home  to  all  the  small  minority  who  care 
a  pin  about  righteousness,  that  in  a  world  like 
our  own,  it  •  is  impossible  for  the  righteous 
always  to  act  consistently  up  to  their  most 
sacred  convictions. 

At  Milan,  they  stopped  long  enough  to  snatch 
a  glimpse  of  the  cathedral,  and  to  take  a  hasty 
walk  through  the  pictured  glories  of  the  Brera. 
A  vague  suspicion  began  to  cross  Herminia's 
mind,  as  she  gazed  at  the  girlish  Madonna  of 
the  Sposalizio,  that  perhaps  she  was  n't  quite  as 
well  adapted  to  love  Italy  as  Switzerland.  Na- 
ture she  understood ;  was  art  yet  a  closed  book 
to  her.^  If  so,  she  would  be  sorry;  for  Alan,  in 
whom  the  artistic  sense  was  largely  developed, 
loved  his  Italy  dearly;  and  it  would  be  a  real 
cause  of  regret  to  her  if  she  fell  short  in  any 
way  of  Alan's  expectations.  Moreover,  at  tabic 
d'hote  that  evening,  a  slight  episode  occurred 
which  roused  to  the  full  once  more  poor  Her- 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


lOI 


niinia's  tender  conscience.  Talk  had  somehow 
turned  on  Shelley's  Italian  wanderings;  and  a 
benevolent-lookin*:;  cler<;yman  opposite,  with 
that  vacantly  well-meaning  smile,  peculiar  to 
a  certain  type  of  country  rector,  was  ai)olo<^iz- 
ing  in  what  he  took  to  be  a  broad  and  generous 
spirit  of  divine  toleration  for  the  great  moral 
teacher's  supposed  lapses  from  the  normal  rule 
of  right  living.  Much,  the  benevolent- looking 
gentleman  opined,  with  beaming  spectacles,  must 
be  forgiven  to  men  of  genius.  Their  tempta- 
tions no  doubt  are  far  keener  than  with  most  of 
us.  An  eager  imagination  —  a  vivid  sense  of 
beauty  —  quick  readiness  to  be  moved  by  the 
sight  of  physical  or  mora^  lo^  liness-  theso 
were  palliations,  the  old  clcrL  man  held,  of 
much  that  seemed  wrong  and  contradirtory  to 
our  eyes  in  the  lives  of  so  many  great  men  anti 
women. 

At  sound  of  such  immoral  and  unwo-rthy 
teaching,  Herrninia's  ardent  soul  rose  up  in 
revolt  within  her.  "  Oh,  no,"  she  cried  eagerly, 
leaning  across  the  table  as  she  spoke.  "  I  can't 
allow  that  plea.  It  's  degrading  to  Shelley, 
and  to  all  true  appreciation  of  the  duties  of 
genius.  Not  less  but  more  than  most  of  us  is  ^ 
the  genius  bound  to  act  up  with  all  his  might 
to  he  highest  moral  law,  to  be  the  prophet  and 
interpreter     if    the    highest   moral    excellence. 


im 


H. 


102 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


^. 


!   I 


'i 


\l\ 


■i      ', 


\ 


To  whom  much  is  given,  of  him  much  shall  be 
required.  Just  because  the  man  or  woman  of 
genius  stands  raised  on  a  pedestal  so  far  above 
the  mass  have  we  the  right  to  expect  that  he  or 
she  should  point  us  the  way,  should  go  before 
us  as  pioneer,  should  be  more  careful  of  the 
truth,  more  disdainful  of  the  wrong,  down  to 
the  smallest  particular,  than  the  ordinary  per- 
son. There  are  poor  souls  born  into  this  world 
so  petty  and  narrow  and  wanting  in  originality 
that  one  can  oniy  expect  them  to  tread  the 
beaten  track,  be  it  ever  so  cruel  and  wicked  and 
mistaken.  But  from  a  Shelley  or  a  George  Eliot, 
we  expect  greater  things,  and  we  have  a  right  to 
expect  them.  That 's  why  I  can  never  quite  for- 
give George  Eliot — who  knew  the  truth,  and 
found  freedom  for  herself,  and  practised  it  in 
her  life — for  upholding  in  her  books  the  con- 
ventional lies,  the  conventional  prejudices;  and 
that 's  why  I  can  never  admire  Shelley  enough, 
who,  in  an  age  of  slavery,  refused  to  abjure  or 
to  deny  his  freedom,  but  acted  unto  death  to 
the  full  height  of  his  principles." 

The  benevolent-looking  clergyman  gazed 
aghast  at  Herminia.  Then  he  turned  slowly 
to  Alan.  "Your  wife,"  he  said  in  a  mild  and 
terrified  voice,  "is  a  vcfj  advanced  lady." 

Herminia  longed  to  blurt  out  the  whole 
simple  truth.     "I  am  not  his  wife.     I  am  not. 


u 


,f 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


103 


and  could  never  be  wife  or  slave  to  any  man. 
This  is  a  very  dear  friend,  and  he  and  I  arc 
travelling  as  friends  together."  But  a  warning 
glance  from  Alan  made  her  hold  her  peace  with 
difficulty  and  acquiesce  as  best  she  might  in 
the  virtual  deception.  Still,  the  incident  went 
to  her  heart,  and  made  her  more  anxious  than 
ever  to  declare  her  convictions  and  her  practi- 
cal obedience  to  them  openly  before  the  world. 
She  remembered,  oh,  so  well  one  of  her  father's 
sermons  that  had  vividly  impressed  her  in  the 
dear  old  days  at  Dunwich  Cathedral.  It  was 
preached  upon  the  text,  "  Come  ye  out  and  be 
ye  separate." 

From  Milan  they  went  on  direct  to  Florence. 
Alan  had  decided  to  <:ake  rooms  for  tlie  summer 
at  Perugia,  and  there  to  see  Herminia  safely 
through  her  maternal  troubles.  He  loved  Peru- 
gia, he  said;  it  was  cool  and  high-perched;  and 
then,  too,  it  was  such  a  capital  place  for  sketch- 
ing. Besides,  he  was  anxious  to  complete  his 
studies  of  the  early  Umbrian  painters.  But 
they  must  have  just  one  week  at  Florence 
together  before  they  went  up  among  the  hills. 
Florence  was  the  place  for  a  beginner  to  find 
out  what  Italian  art  was  aiming  at.  You  got 
it  there  in  its  full  logical  development  —  every 
phase,  step  by  step,  in  organic  unity;  while 
elsewhere  you  saw  but  stages  and  jumps  and 


8!i 


m 


!    !'f 


^1 


i 

i 


f 


104 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


>: 


^ 


X 


V 


results,  interrupted  here  and  there  by  disturb- 
ing lacunce.  So  at  Florence  they  stopped  for 
a  week  en  route,  and  Herminia  first  learnt  what 
Florentine  art  proposed  to  itself. 

Ah,  that  week  in  Florence !  What  a  dream 
of  delight!  'T  was  pure  gold  to  Herminia. 
How  could  it  well  be  otherwise?  It  seemed  to 
her  afterwards  like  the  last  flicker  of  joy  in  a 
doomed  life,  before  its  light  went  out  and  left 
her  forever  in  utter  darkness.  To  be  sure,  a 
week  is  a  terribly  cramped  and  hurried  time  in 
which  to  view  Florence,  the  beloved  city,  whose 
ineffable  glories  need  at  least  one  whole  winter 
adequately  to  grasp  them.  But  failing  a  win- 
ter, a  week  with  the  gods  made  Herminia 
happy.  She  carried  away  but  a  confused  phan- 
tasmagoria, it  is  true,  of  the  soaring  tower  of 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  pointing  straight  with  its 
slender  shaft  to  heaven  ;  of  the  swelling  dome  and 
huge  ribs  of  the  cathedral,  seen  vast  from  the 
terrace  in  front  of  San  Miniato;  of  the  endless 
Madonnas  and  the  deathless  saints  niched  in 
golden  tabernacles  at  the  Uffizi  and  the  Pitti;  of 
the  tender  grace  of  Fra  Angelico  at  San  Marco; 
of  the  infinite  wealth  and  astounding  variety 
of  Donatello's  marble  in  the  spacious  courts  of 
the  cool  Bargello.  But  her  window  at  the 
hotel  looked  straight  as  it  could  look  down  the 
humming  Calzaioli  to  the  pierced  and  encrusted 


<!P 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


105 


front  of  Giotto's  campanile,  with  the  cupofa  of 
San   Lorenzo  in  the  middle  distance,  and  the 

X  facade  of  Fiesolc  standing  out  deep-blue  against 
the   dull   red   glare   of    evening   in    the   back- 

^  ground.  If  that  were  not  enough  to  sate  and 
enchant  Herminia,  she  would  indeed  have 
been  difficult.  And  with  Alan  by  her  side, 
every  joy  was  doubled. 

She  had  never  before  known  what  it  was  to 
have  her  lover  continuously  with  her.  And 
his  aid  in  those  long  corridors,  where  bambinos 
smiled  down  at  her  with  childish  lips,  helped 
her  wondrously  to  understand  in  so  short  a  time 
what  they  sought  to  convey  to  her.  Alan  was 
steeped  in  Italy;  he  knew  and  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  Tuscan  art ;  and  now  for  the  first  time 
Herminia  found  herself  face  to  face  with  a 
thoroughly  new  subject  in  which  Alan  could  be 
her  teacher  from  the  very  beginning,  as  most 
men  are  teachers  to  the  women  who  depend 
upon  them.  This  sense  of  support  and  restful- 
ness  and  clinging  was  fresh  and  delightful  to 
her.  It  is  a  woman's  ancestral  part  to  look  up 
to  the  man;  she  is  happiest  in  doing  it,  and 
must  long  remain  so;  and  Herminia  was  not 
sorry  to  find  herself  in  this  so  much  a  woman. 
She  thought  it  delicious  to  roam  through  the 
long  halls  of  some  great  gallery  with  Alan,  and 
let  him  point  out  to  her  the  pictures  he  loved 


^■ 


i! 


11 


I 


I 

>  'li 

I '     I. 


■■■>'■       1. 1 
ii.      1;,! 


..il 

IS'  !■ 


i^     ' 


io6 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


best,  explain  their  peculiar  merits,  and  show 
the  subtle  relation  in  which  they  stood  to 
the  pictures  that  went  before  them  and  the 
pictures  that  came  after  them,  as  well  as  to  the 
other  work  of  the  same  master  or  his  contempo- 
raries. It  was  even  no  small  joy  to  her  to  find 
that  he  knew  so  much  more  about  art  and  its 
message  than  she  did ;  that  she  could  look  up 
to  his  judgment,  confide  in  his  opinion,  see  the 
truth  of  his  criticism,  profit  much  by  his  in- 
struction. So  well  did  she  use  those  seven 
short  days,  indeed,  that  she  came  to  Florence 
with  Fra  Angelico,  Filippo  Lippi,  Botticelli, 
mere  names;  and  she  went  away  from  it  feel- 
ing that  she  had  made  them  real  friends  and 
possessions  for  a  life-time. 

So  the  hours  whirled  fast  in  those  enchanted 
halls,  and  Herminia's  soul  was  enriched  by 
new  tastes  and  new  interests.  O  towers  of 
fretted  stone!  O  jasper  and  porphyry!  Her 
very  state  of  health  made  her  more  susceptible 
than  usual  to  fresh  impressions,  and  drew  Alan 
at  the  same  time  every  day  into  closer  union 
with  her.  For  was  not  the  young  life  now 
quickening  within  her  half  his  and  half  hers, 
and  did  it  not  seem  to  make  the  father  by  reflex 
nearer  and  dearer  to  her.?  Surely  the  child 
that  was  nurtured,  unborn,  on  those  marble 
colonnades  and  those  placid  Saint   Catherines 


! 


;  .1      I 
'i      , 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


107 


must  draw  in  with  each  pulse  of  its  antenatal 
nutriment  some  tincture  of  beauty,  of  freedom, 
of  culture!     So  Herminia  thought  to  herself  as 
she  lay  awake  at  night  and  looked  out  of  the 
window   from   the  curtains   of   her  bed  at  the 
boundless  dome  and  the  tall  campanile  gleam- 
ing white  in  the  moonlight.     So  we  have  each 
of  us  thought  — especially  the  mothers  in  Israel 
among  us  — about  the  unborn  babe  that  hastens 
along  to  its  birth  with  such  a  radiant  halo  of 
the  possible  future  ever  gilding  and  glorifying 
its  unseen  forehead. 


i  % 


M 


(', 


i 


io8 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


X. 


II 


:1.    i^' 
I,:     I'!' 


/ 


/ 


X 


\ 


All  happy  times  must  end,  and  the  happier  the 
sooner.  At  one  short  week's  close  they  hurried 
on  to  Perugia. 

And  how  full  Alan  had  been  of  Perugia 
beforehand !  He  loved  every  stone  of  the  town, 
every  shadow  of  the  hillsides,  he  told  Herrinnia 
at  Florence;  and  Herminia  started  on  her  way 
accordingly  well  prepared  to  fall  quite  as  madly 
in  love  with  the  Umbrian  capital  as  Alan  him- 
self had  done. 

The  railway  journey,  indeed,  seemed  ex- 
tremely pretty.  What  a  march  of  sweet  pic- 
tures !  They  mounted  with  creaking  wheels  the 
slow  ascent  up  the  picturesque  glen  where  the 
Arno  runs  deep,  to  the  white  towers  of  Arezzo; 
then  Cortona  throned  in  state  on  its  lonely 
hill-top,  and  girt  by  its  gigantic  Etruscan  walls; 
next  the  low  bank,  the  lucid  green  water,  the 
olive-clad  slopes  of  reedy  Thrasymene ;  last  of 
all,  the  sere  hills  and  city-capped  heights  of 
their  goal,   Perugia. 


iij 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


109 


For  its  name's  sake  alone,  Herminia  was  pre- 
pared to  admire  the  antique  Umbrian  capital. 
And  Alan  loved  it  so  much,  and  was  so  deter- 
mined she  ought  to  love  it  too,  that  she  was 
ready  to  be  pleased  with  everything  in  it. 
Until  she  arrived  there  —  and  then,  oh,  poor 
heart,  what  a  grievous  disappointment !  It  was 
late  April  weather  when  they  reached  the  sta- 
tion at  the  foot  of  that  high  hill  where  Augusta 
Perusia  sits  lording  it  on  her  throne  over  the 
wedded  valleys  of  the  Tiber  and  the  Clituiimus. 
Tramontana  was  blowing.  No  rain  had  fallen 
for  weeks*  the  slopes  of  the  lower  Apennines, 
ever  dry  aad  dusty,  shone  still  drier  and  dustier 
than  Alan  had  yet  beheld  them.  Herminia 
glanced  up  at  the  long  white  road,  thick  in 
deep  gray  powder,  that  led  by  endless  zigzags 
along  the  dreary  slope  to  the  long  white  town 
on  the  shadeless  hill-top.  At  first  sight  alone, 
Perugia  was  a  startling  disillusion  to  Herminia. 
She  didn  't  yet  know  how  bitterly  shewas  doomed 
hereafter  to  hate  every  dreary  dirty  street  in  it. 
But  she  knew  at  the  first  blush  that  the  Perugia 
she  had  imagined  and  pictured  to  herself  didn't 
really  exist  and  had  never  existed. 

She  had  figured  in  her  own  mind  a  beautiful 
breezy  town,  high  set  on  a  peaked  hill,  in  fresh 
and  mossy  country.  She  had  envisaged  the 
mountains  to  her  soul  as  clad  with  shady  woods, 


^i 


m 

I 

ill 


i. 


;>  i 


M    I 


r 


(:' 


IJ!! 


$' 


W    " 


no 


THE  WOMAN  \V:iO   DID. 


and  strewn  with  hiipje  boulders  under  whose 
umbrageous  shelter  bloomed  waving  masses  of 
the  pretty  pale  blue  Apennine  anemones  she 
saw  sold  in  big  bunches  at  the  street  corners 
in  Florence.  She  had  imagined,  in  short,  that 
Umbria  was  a  wilder  Italian  Wales,  as  fresh, 
as  green,  as  sweet-scented,  as  fountain-fed.  And 
she  knew  pretty  well  whence  she  had  derived 
that  strange  and  utterly  false  conception.  She 
had  fancied  Perugia  as  one  of  those  mountain 
villages  described  by  Macaulay,the  sort  of  hill- 
top stronghold 

"  That,  hid  by  beech  and  pine, 
Like  an  eagle's  nest  liangs  on  the  crest 
Of  purple  Apennine." 

Instead  of  that,  what  manner  of  land  did  she 
see  actually  before  her.?  Dry  and  shadeless 
hill-sides,  tilled  with  obtrusive  tilth  to  their 
topmost  summit;  ploughed  fields  and  hoary 
olive-groves  silvering  to  the  wind,  in  intermin- 
able terraces;  long  suburbs,  unlovely  in  their 
gaunt,  bare  squalor,  stretching  like  huge  arms 
of  some  colossal  cuttlefish  over  the  spurs  and 
shoulders  of  that  desecrated  mountain.  No 
woods,  no  moss,  no  coolness,  no  greenery;  all 
nature  toned  down  to  one  monotonous  grayness. 
And  this  dreary  desert  was  indeed  the  place 
where  her  baby  must  be  born,  the  baby  pre- 
destined to  regenerate  humanity! 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


Ill 


ii 


ir 

IS 


11 


Oh,  why  did  they  ever  leave  that  enchanted 
TMorence! 

Meanwhile  Alan  had  got  together  the  lug- 
gage, and  engaged  a  ramshackle  Perugian  cab; 
for  the  public  vehicles  of  Perugia  are  per- 
haps, as  a  class,  the  most  precarious  and  inco- 
herent known  to  science.  However,  the  luggage 
was  bundled  on  to  the  top  by  Our  Lady's  grace, 
without  dissolution  of  continuity;  the  lean- 
limbed  horses  were  induced  by  explosive  vol- 
leys of  sound  Tuscan  oaths  to  make  a  feeble  and 
spasmodic  effort;  and  bit  by  bit  the  sad  little 
cavalcade  began  slowly  to  ascend  the  inter- 
minable hill  that  rises  by  long  loops  to  the 
platform  of  the  Prefettura. 

That  drive  was  the  gloomiest  Herminia  had 
ever  yet  taken.  Was  it  the  natural  fastidious- 
ness of  her  condition,  she  wondered,  or  was  it 
really  the  dirt  and  foul  smells  of  the  place  that 
made  her  sicken  at  first  sight  of  the  wind-swept 
purlieus?  Perhaps  a  little  of  both;  for  in  dusty 
weather  Perugia  is  the  most  endless  town  to 
get  out  of  in  Italy;  and  its  capacity  for  the 
production  of  unpleasant  odors  is  unequalled 
no  doubt  from  the  Alps  to  Calabria.  As 
they  reached  the  bare  white  platform  at  the 
entry  to  the  upper  town,  where  Pope  Paul's 
grim  fortress  once  frowned  to  overawe  the  auda- 
cious souls  of  the  liberty-loving  Umbrians,  she 


i  1 


112 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


i,    r 


1-,   1,1 


.'in 


turned  mute  eyes  to  Alan  for  sympathy.  And 
then  for  the  first  time  the  terrible  truth  broke 
over  her  that  Alan  was  n't  in  the  least  disap- 
pointed or  disgusted;  he  knew  it  all  before;  he 
was  accustomed  to  it  and  liked  it!  As  for 
Alan,  he  misinterpreted  her  glance,  indeed, 
and  answered  with  that  sort  of  proprietary 
pride  we  all  of  us  assume  towards  a  place  we 
love,  and  are  showing  off  to  a  newcomer:  "  Yes, 
I  thought  you'd  like  this  view,  dearest;  isn't 
it  wonderful,  wonderful?  That's  Assisi  over 
yonder,  that  strange  white  town  that  clings  by 
its  eyelashes  to  the  sloping  hillside;  and  those 
are  the  snowclad  heights  of  the  Gran  Sasso 
beyond;  and  that's  Montcfalco  to  the  extreme 
right,  where  the  sunset  gleam  just  catches  the 
hill-top." 

His  words  struck  dumb  horror  into  Her- 
minia's  soul.  Poor  child,  how  she  shrank  at 
it !  It  was  clear,  then,  instead  of  being  shocked 
and  disgusted,  Alan  positively  admired  this 
human  Sahara.  With  an  effort  she  gulped 
down  her  tears  and  her  sighs,  and  pretended 
to  look  with  interest  in  the  directions  he 
pointed.  S/ie  could  see  nothing  in  it  all  but 
dry  hill-sides,  crowned  with  still  drier  towns; 
unimagined  stretches  of  sultry  suburb;  devour- 
ing wastes  of  rubbish  and  foul  immemorial 
kitchen-middens.     And  the  very  fact  that  for 


X 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


113 


!■ 


Alan's  sake  she  couldn't  bear  to  say  so —  see- 
ing how  pleased  and  proud  he  was  of  Perugia, 
as  if  it  had  been  built  from  his  own  design  — 
made  the  bitterness  of  her  disappointment  more 
difficult  to  endure.  She  would  have  given  any- 
thing at  that  moment  for  an  ounce  of  human 
sympathy. 

She  had  to  learn  in  time  to  do  without  it. 

They  spent  that  night  at  the  comfortable 
hotel,  perhaps  the  best  in  Italy.  Next  morn- 
ing, they  were  to  go  hunting  for  apartments 
in  the  town,  where  Alan  knew  of  a  suite  that 
would  exactly  suit  them.  After  dinner,  in  the 
twilight,  filled  with  his  artistic  joy  at  being 
back  in  Perugia,  his  beloved  Perugia,  he  took 
Herminia  out  for  a  stroll,  with  a  light  wrap 
round  her  head,  on  the  terrace  of  the  Prefettura. 
The  air  blew  fresh  and  cool  now  with  a  certain 
mountain  sharpness;  for,  as  Alan  assured  her 
with  pride,  they  stood  seventeen  hundred  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  Mediterranean.  The 
moon  had  risen;  the  sunset  glow  had  not  yet 
died  off  the  slopes  of  the  Assisi  hill-sides.  It 
streamed  through  the  perforated  belfry  of  San 
Domenico;  it  steeped  in  rose-color  the  slender 
and  turreted  shaft  of  San  Pietro,  "  Perugia's 
Pennon,"  the  Arrowhead  of  Umbria.  It  gilded 
the  gaunt  houses  that  jut  out  upon  the  spine 
of  the  Borgo  hill  into  the  valley  of  the  Tiber. 

S 


,1 


i 


p! 


i 


'p 


; 


'■?' 


V\] 


V 


f. 


114 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


\ 


Beyond,  rose  shadowy  Apennines,  on  whose 
aerial  flanks  towns  and  villages  shone  out  clear 
in  the  mellow  moonlight.  Far  away  on  their 
peaks  faint  specks  of  twinkling  fire  marked 
indistinguishable  sites  of  high  hill-top  castles. 

Alan  turned  to  her  proudly.  "Well,  what  do 
you  think  of  that?  "  he  asked  with  truly  personal 
interest. 

Herminia  could  only  gasp  out  in  a  half  reluc- 
tant way,  "  It 's  a  beautiful  view,  Alan.  Beau- 
tiful;  beautiful;  beautiful!" 

But  she  felt  conscious  to  herself  it  owed  its 
beauty  in  the  main  to  the  fact  that  the  twilight 
obscured  so  much  of  it.  To-morrow  morning, 
the  bare  hills  would  stand  out  once  more  in  all 
their  pristine  bareness;  the  white  roads  would 
shine  forth  as  white  and  dusty  as  ever;  the 
obtrusive  rubbish  heaps  would  press  themselves 
at  every  turn  upon  eye  and  nostril.  She  hated 
the  place,  to  say  the  truth;  it  was  a  terror  to 
her  to  think  she  had  to  stop  so  long  in  it. 

Most  famous  towns,  in  fact,  need  to  be  twice 
seen:  the  first  time  briefly  to  face  the  inev- 
itable disappointment  to  our  expectations;  the 
second  time,  at  leisure,  to  reconstruct  and  ap- 
praise the  surviving  reality.  Imagination  so 
easily  beggars  performance.  Rome,  Cairo,  the 
Nile,  are  obvious  examples;  the  grand  excep- 
tions are  Venice  and  Florence,  —  in  a  lesser 


*  ,. 


o 
e 
)- 


' 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


»I5 


/ 


degree,  Bruges,  Munich,  Pisa.     As  for  Umbria, 
0       I    't  is  a  poor  thing;  our  own   Devon  snaps  her 
I    fingers  at  it. 

Moreover,  to  say  the  truth,  Herininia  was 
too  fresh  to  Italy  to  appreciate  the  smaller  or 
second-rate  towns  at  their  real  value.  Even 
.  northerners  love  Florence  and  Venice  at  first 
V  sight;  those  take  their  hearts  by  storm;  but 
Perugia,  Siena,  Orvieto,  are  an  acquired  taste, 
like  olives  and  caviare,  and  it  takes  time  to 
\  acquire  it.  Alan  had  not  made  due  allowance 
for  this  psychological  truth  of  the  northern 
natures.  A  Celt  in  essence,  thoroughly  Italian- 
ate  himself,  and  with  a  deep  love  for  the  pic- 
turesque, which  often  makes  men  insensible  to 
dirt  and  discomfort,  he  expected  to  Italianize 
Herminia  too  rapidly.  Hcrminia,  on  the  other 
hand,  belonged  more  strictly  to  the  intellectual 
and  somewhat  inartistic  English  type.  The  pic- 
turesque alone  did  not  suffice  for  her.  Clean- 
liness and  fresh  air  were  far  dearer  to  her  soul 
than  the  quaintest  street  corners,  the  oddest 
old  archways;  she  pined  in  Perugia  for  a  green 
English  hillside. 

The  time,  too,  was  unfortunate,  after  no  rain 
for  weeks;  for  ralnlessncss,  besides  doubling 
the  native  stock  of  dust,  brings  out  to  the  full 
the  ancestral  Etruscan  odors  of  Perugia.  So, 
when   next   morning    Herminia   found    herself 


I 


'■    i 


s: 


tmmmmmm 


\>  < 


la 


li 


1/ 

f   I 


j:  ■ 


li!) 


l;! 


ii6 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


installed  in  a  dingy  flat,  in  a  morose  palazzo, 
in  the  main  street  of  the  city,  she  was  glad 
that  Alan  insisted  on  going  out  alone  to  make 
needful  purchases  of  groceries  and  provisions, 
because  it  gave  her  a  chance  of  flinging  herself 
on  her  bed  in  a  perfect  agony  of  distress  and 
disappointment,  and  having  a  good  cry,  all 
alone,  at  the  aspect  of  the  home  where  she 
was  to  pass  so  many  eventful  weeks  of  her 
existence. 

Dusty,  gusty  Perugia!  O  baby,  to  be  born 
for  the  freeing  of  woman,  was  it  here,  was  it 
here  you  must  draw  your  first  breath,  in  an  air 
polluted  by  the  vices  of  centuries ! 


11 
ill 


M      1 

m  i 

■•ii  i 
Hi 


I 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


"7 


XI. 

Somewhat  later  in  the  day,  they  went  out  for  a 
stroll  through  the  town  together.  To  Herminia's 
great  rel.ef.  Alan  never  even  noticed  she  had 
been  crying.  Man-like,  he  was  absorbed  in  his 
own  delight.  She  would  have  felt  herself  a 
traitor  if  Alan  had  discovered  it 

"Which  way  shall  we  go .v  she  asked  list- 
lessly  with  a  glance  to  right  and  left,  as  they 
passed^beneath  the  sombre  Tuscan  gate'  of  their 

And  Alan  answered,  smiling,  "Why  what 
does  ,t  matter  .>  Which  way  you  like.  ^  Every 
way  IS  a  picture. "  ^ 

adrnk"  in  1'  ""''  "'™'"'^  "^^^^^'f  -^«  fain  to 
at  a I'Jr     /."■■'   P""'"'^  ^^"=«  that  didn't 

a'ai  st^e    .      •     H""  ^'■""P^''  themselves  ^ 
against  tne  sky  ,n  infinite  diversity.     Which 

e^e"  7Lyirr'  ^"^'"'  ""'  -"^  '-t  the  r 
eyes  and  tumble-down  churches,  and  moulder. 

2  towers,  and   medi.-eval  palazzi  with  carved 

doorways  or  rich  loggias.     But  whichever  way 

they  turned  dusty  roads  too  confronted  them 


X 


y 


ill ' 


If 


I 


¥  ill 


Ii8 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


illimitable  stretches  of  gloomy  suburb,  unwhole- 
some airs,  sickening  sights  and  sounds  and  per- 
fumes. Narrow  streets  swept,  darkling,  under 
pointed  archways,  that  framed  distant  vistas  of 
spire  or  campanile,  silhouetted  against  the  solid 
blue  sky  of  Italy.  The  crystal  hardness  of  that 
sapphire  firmament  repelled  Herminia.  They 
passed  beneath  the  triumphal  arch  of  Augustus 
with  its  Etruscan  mason-work,  its  Roman  deco- 
rations, and  round  the  antique  walls,  aglow  with 
tufted  gillyflowers,  to  the  bare  Piazza  d'  Armi. 
A  cattle  fair  was  going  on  there;  and  Alan 
pointed  with  pleasure  to  the  curious  fact  that 
the  oxen  were  all  cream-colored,  —  the  famous 
white  steers  of  Clitumnus.  Herminia  knew  her 
Virgil  as  well  as  Alan  himself,  and  murmured 
half  aloud  the  sonorous  hexameter,  "  Romanos 
ad  templa  deum  duxere  triumphos."  But  some- 
how, the  knowledge  that  these  were  indeed  the 
milk-white  bullocks  of  Clitumnus  failed  amid 
so  much  dust  to  arouse  her  enthusiasm.  She 
would  have  been  better  pleased  just  then  with 
a  yellow  English  primrose. 

They  clambered  down  the  terraced  ravines 
sometimes,  a  day  or  two  later,  to  arid  banks 
by  a  dry  torrent's  bed  where  Italian  primroses 
really  grew,  interspersed  with  tall  grape-hya- 
cinths, and  scented  violets,  and  glossy  cleft 
leaves  of  winter  aconite.     But  even  the  prim- 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


119 


roses  were  not  the  same  thing  to  Herminia  as 
those  she  used  to  gather  on  the  dewy  slopes 
of  the  Redlands;  they  were  so  dry  and  dust' 
grimed,  and  the  path  by  the  torrent's  side  was 
so  distasteful  and  unsavory.  Bare  white  boughs 
of  twisted  fig-trees  depressed  her.  Besides, 
these  hills  were  steep,  and  Herminia  felt  the 
climbing.  Nothing  in  city  or  suburbs  attracted 
her  soul.  Etruscan  Volumnii,  each  lolling  in 
white  travertine  on  the  sculptured  lid  of  his 
own  sarcophagus  urn,  and  all  duly  ranged  in 
the  twilight  of  their  tomb  at  their  spectral  ban- 
quet, stirred  her  heart  but  feebly.  St.  Francis, 
Santa  Chiara,  fell  flat  on  her  English  fancy. 
But  as  for  Alan,  he  revelled  all  day  long  in  his 
native  element.  He  sketched  every  morning, 
among  the  huddled,  strangled  lanes;  sketched 
churches  and  monasteries,  and  portals  of  pa- 
lazzi;  sketched  mountains  clear-cut  in  that 
pellucid  air;  till  Herminia  wondered  how  he 
could  sit  so  long  in  the  broiling  sun  or  keen 
wind  on  those  bare  hillsides,  or  on  broken  brick 
parapets  in  those  noisome  byways.  But  your 
born  sketcher  is  oblivious  of  all  on  earth  save  his 
chosen  art;  and  Alan  was  essentially  a  painter 
in  fibre,  diverted  by  pure  circumstance  into  a 
Chancery  practice. 

The  very  pictures   in   the   gallery  failed   to 
interest  Herminia,   she  knew  not  why.     Alan 


V 


r-i  -■' 


■    i 


n 


■is 


'U 


;t 


120 


THE   WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


i  ■       Ki: 


H 


'J-     4 


could  n't  rouse  her  to  enthusiasm  over  his 
beloved  Buonfigli.  Those  nalfve  flaxen-haired 
angels,  with  sweetly  parted  lips,  and  baskets  of 
red  roses  in  their  delicate  hands,  own  sisters 
though  they  were  to  the  girlish  Lippis  she  had 
so  admired  at  Florence,  moved  her  heart  but 
faintly.  Try  as  she  might  to  like  them,  she 
responded  to  nothing  Perugian   in  any  way. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  or  two,  however,  Alan 
began  to  complain  of  constant  headache.  He 
was  looking  very  well,  but  grew  uneasy  and 
restless.  Herminia  advised  him  to  give  up 
sketching  for  a  while,  those  small  streets  were 
so  close;  and  he  promised  to  yield  to  her  wishes 
in  the  matter.  Yet  he  grew  worse  next  day, 
so  that  Herminia,  much  alarmed,  called  in  an 
Italian  doctor.  Perugia  boasted  no  English 
one.  The  Italian  felt  his  pulse,  and  listened  to 
his  symptoms.  "The  signore  came  here  from 
Florence.'*"  he  asked. 

"From  Florence,"  Herminia  assented,  with  a 
sudden  sinking. 

The  doctor  protruded  his  .lower  lip.  "This 
is  typhoid  fever,"  he  said  after  a  pause.  "A 
very  bad  type.  It  has  been  assuming  such  a 
form  this  winter  at  Florence." 

He  spoke  the  plain  truth.  Twenty-one  days 
before  in  his  bedroom  at  the  hotel  in  Florence, 
Alan  had  drunk  a  single  glass  of  water  from  the 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID.  121 

polluted  springs  that  supply  in  part  the  Tuscan 
metropolis.  For  tvventy-one  days  those  victo- 
rious  miciobes  had  brooded  in  silence  in  his  poi- 
soned arteries.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  they 
swarmed  and  declared  themselves.  He  was  ill 
with  an  aggravated  form  of  the  most  deadly 
disease  that  still  stalks  unchecked  through 
unsanitated  Europe. 

Herminia's  alarm  was  painful.  Alan  grew 
rapidly  worse.  In  two  days  he  was  so  ill  thut 
she  thought  it  her  duty  to  telegraph  at  once  to 
Dr.  Merrick,  in  London  :  "Alan's  life  in  danger. 
Serious  attack  of  Florentine  typhoid.  Italian 
doctor  despairs  of  his  life.  May  not  last  till 
to-morrow.  —  Herminia  Barton." 

Later  on  in  the  day  came  a  telegram  in  reply  • 
it  was  addressed  to  Alan :  "Am  on  my  way  out 
by  through  train  to  attend  you.  But  as  a  mat- 
ter ot  duty,  marry  the  girl  at  once,  and  legiti- 
matize your  child  while  the  chance  remains  to 
you." 

It  was  kindly  meant  in  its  way.  It  was  a 
message  of  love,  of  forgiveness,  of  generosity, 
such  as  Herminia  would  hardly  have  expected 
from  so  stern  a  man  as  Alan  had  always  repre- 
sented  his  father  to  be  to  her.  But  at  moments 
of  unexpected  danger  angry  feelings  between 
father  and  son  are  often  forgotten,  and  blood 
unexpectedly  proves  itself  thicker  than  water. 


^ 


ii 


11 


H 


r 


M 


.        »., 


■J, 

*■; 

■•    ''i! 


I:  I 


i 


122 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


Yet  even  so  Herminia  could  n't  bear  to  show 
the  telegram  to  Alan.  She  feared  lest  in  this 
extremity,  his  mind  weakened  by  disease,  he 
might  wish  to  take  his  father's  advice,  and 
prove  untrue  to  their  common  principles.  In 
that  case,  woman  that  she  was,  she  hardly  knew 
how  she  could  resist  what  might  be  only  too 
probably  his  dying  wishes.  Still,  she  nerved 
herself  for  this  trial  of  faith,  and  went  through 
with  it  bravely.  Alan,  though  sinking,  was  still 
conscious  at  moments;  in  one  such  interval, 
with  an  effort  to  be  calm,  she  showed  him  his 
father's  telegram.  Tears  rose  into  his  eyes. 
"I  didn't  expect  him  to  come,"  he  said. 
"This  is  all  very  good  of  him."  Then,  after  a 
moment,  he  added,  "Would  you  wish  me  in  this 
extremity,  Hermy,  to  do  as  he  advises  .<*" 

Herminia  bent  over  him  with  fierce  tears  on 
her  eyelids.  "O  Alan  darling,"  she  cried, 
"you  mustn't  die!  You  mustn't  leave  me! 
What  could  I  do  without  you?  oh,  my  darling, 
my  darling!  But  don't  think  of  me  now. 
Don't  think  of  the  dear  baby.  I  couldn't  bear 
to  disturb  you  even  by  showing  you  the  tele- 
gram. For  your  sake,  Alan,  I  '11  be  calm,  — 
I  '11  be  calm.  But  oh,  not  for  worlds,  —  not  for 
worlds,  —  even  so,  would  I  turn  my  back  on  the 
principles  we  would  both  risk  our  lives  for! " 

Alan   smiled   a   faint   smile.     "Hermy,"  he 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


123 


said  slowly,  "I  love  you  all  the  more  for  it. 
You  're  as  brave  as  a  lion.  Oh,  hovvr  much  I 
have  learned  from  you ! " 

All    that     night    and     next    day    Herminia 
watched   by  his   bedside.     Now  and  again    he 
was  conscious.     But  for  the  most  part  he  lay 
still,   in  a  comatose  condition,  with   eyes   half 
closed,   the  whites  showing   through   the   lids, 
neither  moving  nor  speaking.     All  the  time  he 
grew  worse  steadily.     As  she  sat   by  his  bed- 
side, Herminia  began  to  realize  the  utter  loneli- 
ness of  her  position.     That  Alan  might  die  was 
the  one  element  in  the  situation  she  had  never 
even  dreamt  of.     No  wife  could  love  her  hus- 
band with  more  perfect  devotion  than  Herminia 
loved  Alan.     She  hung  upon  every  breath  with 
unspeakable  suspense  and  unutterable  affection. 
But  the  Italian  doctor  held  out  little  hope  of  a 
rally.     Herminia  sat  there,  fixed  to  the  spot,  a 
white  marble  statue. 

Late  next  evening  Dr.  Merrick  reached 
Perugia.  He  diove  straight  from  the  station 
to  the  dingy  flat  in  the  morose  palazzo.  At  the 
door  of  his  son's  room,  Herminia  met  him, 
clad  from  head  to  foot  in  white,  as  she  had  sat 
by  the  bedside.  Tears  blinded  her  eyes;  her 
face  was  wan;  her  mien  terribly  haggard. 

"And  my  son.?"  the  Doctor  asked,  with  a 
hushed  breath  of  terror. 


wm 


"HI 


">  f 


'r  It! 


124 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


"  He  died  half  an  hour  ago,"  Herminia  gasped 
out  with  an  effort. 

"15ut  he  married  you  before  he  died?"  the 
father  cried,  in  a  tone  of  profound  emotion. 
"He  did  justice  to  his  child .^  —  he  repaired  his 
evil.?" 

"He  did  not,"  Herminia  answered,  in  a 
scarcely  audible  voice.  "He  was  stanch  to 
the  end  to  his  lifelong  principles." 

"  Why  not  ? "  the  father  asked,  staggering. 
"  Did  he  see  my  telegram }  " 

"Yes,"  Herminia  answered,  numb  with  grief, 
yet  too  proud  to  prevaricate.  "  But  I  advised 
him  to  stand  firm;  and  he  abode  by  my 
decision." 

The  father  waved  her  aside  with  his  hands 
imperiously.  "Then  I  have  done  with  you," 
he  exclaimed.  "  I  am  sorry  to  seem  harsh  to 
you  at  such  a  moment.  But  it  is  your  own 
doing.  You  leave  me  no  choice.  You  have 
no  right  any  longer  in  my  son's  apartments." 


m 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


125 


XII. 


II  J 


No  position  in  life  is  more  terrible  to  face  than 
that  of  the  widowed  mother  left  alone   in  the 
world  with  her  unborn  baby.      When  the  child 
is   her   first  one, —when,    besides  the  natural 
horror  and  agony  of  the  situation,  she  has  also 
to  confront  the  unknown  dangers  of  that  new 
and  dreaded   experience,  —  her   plight   is    still 
more  pitiable.     But  when  the  widowed  mother 
is  one  who  has  never  been  a  wife,—  when  in  addi- 
tion to  all  these  pangs  of  bereavement  and  fear, 
she  has  further  to  face  the  contempt  and  hos- 
tility of  a  sneering  world,  as  Herminia  had  to 
face  it,— then,   indeed,   her  lot  becomes  well- 
nigh  insupportable;  it  is  almost  more  than  hu- 
man nature  can  bear  up  against.     So  Herminia 
found    it.     She  might  have  died  of  grief   and 
loneliness  then  and  there,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
sudden  and  unexpected  rousing  of  her  spirit  of 
opposition  by  Dr.  Merrick's  words.     That  cruel 
speech  gave  her  the  will  and  the  power  to  live. 
It  saved  her  from  madness.     She  drew  herself 
up  at  once  with  an  injured  woman's  pride,  and, 


126 


THE  WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


il'' 


i : 


Sf| 


facing  her  dead  Alan's  father  with  a  quick 
access  of  energy,  — 

"You  are  wrong,"  she  said,  stilling  her  heart 
with  one  hand.  "These  rooms  are  mine,  —  my 
own,  not  dear  Alan's.  I  engaged  them  myself, 
for  my  own  use,  and  in  my  own  name,  as 
Herminia  Barton.  You  can  stay  here  if  you 
wish.  I  will  not  imitate  your  cruelty  by  re- 
fusing you  access  to  them ;  but  if  you  remain 
here,  you  must  treat  me  at  least  with  the  re- 
spect that  belongs  to  my  great  sorrow,  and 
with  the  courtesy  due  to  an  English  lady." 

Her  words  half  cowed  him.  He  subsided  at 
once.  In  silence  he  stepped  over  to  his  dead 
son's  bedride.  Mechanically,  almost  uncon- 
sciously, Herminia  went  on  with  the  needful  prep- 
arations for  Alan's  funeral.  Her  grief  was  so  in- 
tense that  she  bore  up  as  if  stunned ;  she  did  what 
was  expected  of  her  without  thinking  or  feeling 
it.  Dr.  Merrick  stopped  on  at  Perugia  till  his 
son  was  buried.  He  was  frigidly  polite  mean- 
while to  Herminia.  Deeply  as  he  differed  from 
her,  the  dignity  and  pride  with  which  she  had 
answered  his  first  insult  impressed  him  with  a 
certain  sense  of  respect  for  her  character,  and 
made  him  feel  at  least  he  could  not  be  rude 
to  her  with  impunity.  He  remained  at  the 
hotel,  and  superintended  the  arrangements  for 
his  son's  funeral.     As  soon  as  that  was  over, 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


127 


and  Hcrminia  had  seen  the  coffin  lowered  into 
the  grave  of  all  her  hopes,  save  one,  she  re- 
turned to  her  rooms  alone,  —more  utterly  alone 
than  she  had  ever  imagined  any  human  being 
could  feel  in  a  cityful  of  fellow-creatures. 

She  must  shape  her  path  now  for  herself 
without  Alan's  aid,  without  Alan's  advice. 
And  her  bitterest  enemies  in  life,  she  felt  sure, 
would  henceforth  be  those  of  Alan's  house- 
hold. 

Yet,  lonely  as  she  was,  she  determined  from 
the  first  moment  no  course  was  left  open  for 
her  save  to  remain  at  Perugia.  She  couldn't 
go  away  so  soon  from  the  spot  where  Alan  was 
laid,  — from  all  that  remained  to  her  now  of 
Alan.  Except  his  unborn  baby, — the  baby 
that  was  half  his,  half  hers,  — the  baby  predes- 
tined to  regenerate  humanity.  Oh,  how  she 
longed  to  fondle  it !  Every  arrangement  had 
been  made  in  Perugia  for  the  baby's  advent; 
she  would  stand  by  those  arrangements  still,  in 
her  shuttered  room,  partly  because  she  couldn't 
tear  herself  away  from  Alan's  grave;  partly 
because  she  had  no  heart  left  to  make  the 
necessary  arrangements  elsewhere;  but  partly 
also  because  she  wished  Alan's  baby  to  be  born 
near  Alan's  side,  where  she  could  present  it 
after  birth  at  its  father's  last  resting-place.  It 
was   a  fanciful  wish,    she   knew,    based    upon 


128 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


t'\- 


3"  I 


'I 


''   k 


ideas  she  had  long  since  discarded;  but  these 
ancestral  sentiments  echo  long  in  our  hearts; 
they  die  hard  with  us  all,  and  most  hard  with 
women. 

She  would  stop  on  at  Perugia,  and  die  in 
giving  birth  to  Alan's  baby;  or  else  live  to  be 
father  and  mother  in  one  to  it. 

So  she  stopped  and  waited ;  waited  in  tremu- 
lous fear,  half  longing  for  death,  half  eager  not 
to  leave  that  sacred  baby  an  orphan.  It  would 
be  Alan's  baby,  and  might  grow  in  time  to  be 
the  world's  true  savior.  For,  now  that  Alan 
was  dead,  no  hope  on  earth  seemed  too  great  to 
cherish  for  Alan's  child  within  her. 

And  oh,  that  it  might  be  a  girl,  to  take  up 
the  task  she  herself  had  failed  in ! 

The  day  after  the  funeral.  Dr.  K  -rick  called 
in  for  the  last  time  at  her  lodgings.  He  brought 
in  his  hand  a  legal-looking  paper,  which  he  had 
found  in  searching  among  Alan's  effects,  for 
he  had  carried  them  off  to  his  hotel,  leaving 
not  even  a  memento  of  her  ill-starred  love  to 
Herminia.  "This  may  interest  you,"  he  said 
dryly.  "You  will  see  at  once  it  is  in  my  son's 
handwriting." 

Herminia  glanced  over  it  with  a  burning  face. 
It  was  a  will  in  her  favor,  leaving  absolutely 
everything  of  which  he  died  possessed  "to  my 
beloved  friend,  Herminia  Barton." 


"' 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


129 


Herminia  had  hardly  the  means  to  keep  her- 
self alive  till  her  baby  was  born;  but  in  those 
first  fierce  hours  of  ineffable  bereavement  what 
question  of  money  could  interest  her  in  any 
way?  She  stared  at  it,  stupefied.  It  only 
pleased  her  to  think  Alan  had  not  forgotten  her. 

The  sordid  moneyed  class  of  England  will 
haggle  over  bequests  and  settlements  and  dow- 
ries on  their  bridal  eve,  or  by  the  coffins  of 
their  dead.  Herminia  had  no  such  ignoble 
possibilities.  How  could  he  speak  of  it  in  her 
presence  at  a  moment  like  this.^  How  obtrude 
such  themes  on  her  august  sorrow? 

"This  was  drawn  up,"  Dr.  Merrick  went  on 
in  his  austere  voice,  "the  very  day  before  my 
late  son  left  London.  But,  of  course,  you  will 
have  observed  it  was  never  executed." 

And  in  point  of  fact  Herminia  now  listlessly 
noted  that  it  lacked  Alan's  signature. 

"That  makes  it,  I  need  hardly  say,  of  no 
legal  value,"  the  father  went  on,  with  frigid 
calm.  "  I  bring  it  round  merely  to  show  you 
that  my  son  intended  to  act  honorably  towards 
you.  As  things  stand,  of  course,  he  has  died 
intestate,  and  his  property,  such  as  it  is,  will 
follow  the  ordinary  law  of  succession.  For 
your  sake,  I  am  sorry  it  should  be  so;  I  could 
have  wished  it  otherwise.  However,  I  need  not 
remind  you"  —  he  picked  his  phrases  carefully 

9 


w 


i\ 


III 


i.  E' 

i'  «' 


;  :s< 


I     ! 


i: 


'I 


130 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


with  icy  precision  —  "that  under  circumstances 
like  these  neither  you  nor  your  child  have  any 
claim  whatsoever  upon  my  son's  estate.  Nor 
have  I  any  right  over  it.  Still"  —  he  paused 
for  a  second,  and  that  incisive  mouth  strove  to 
grow  gentle,  while  Herminia  hot  with  shame, 
confronted  him  helplessly  —  '*  I  sympathize 
with  your  position,  and  do  not  forget  it  was 
Alan  who  brought  you  here.  Therefore,  as 
an  act  of  courtesy  to  a  lady  in  whom  he  was 
personally  interested  .  .  .  if  a  slight  gift  of  fifty 
pounds  would  be  of  immediate  service  to  you 
in  your  present  situation,  why,  I  think,  with 
the  approbation  of  his  brothers  and  sisters,  who 
of  course  inherit  —  " 

Herminia  turned  upon  him  like  a  wounded 
creature.  She  thanked  the  blind  caprice  which 
governs  the  universe  that  it  gave  her  strength 
at  that  moment  to  bear  up  under  his  insult. 
With  one  angry  hand  she  waved  dead  Alan's 
father  inexorably  to  the  door.  "Go,"  she  said 
simply.  "How  dare  you?  how  dare  you  .<*  Leave 
my  rooms  this  instant." 

Dr.  Merrick  still  irresolute,  and  anxious  in 
his  way  to  do  what  he  thought  was  just,  drew 
a  roll  of  Italian  bank  notes  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  laid  them  on  the  table.  "  You  may 
find  these  useful,"  he  said,  as  he  retreated 
awkwardly. 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


131 


Herminia  turned  upon  him  with  the  just 
wrath  of  a  great  nature  outraged.  "Take  them 
up!"  she  cried  fiercely.  "Don't  pollute  my 
table  I"  Then,  as  often  happens  to  all  of  us  in 
moments  of  deep  emotion,  a  Scripture  phrase, 
long  hallowed  by  childish  familiarity,  rose 
spontaneous  to  her  lips.  "Take  them  up!" 
she  cried  again.  "Thy  money  perish  with 
thee!" 

Dr.  Merrick  took  them  up,  and  slank  noise- 
lessly from  the  room,  murmuring  as  he  went 
some  inarticulate  words  to  the  effect  that  he 
had  only  desired  to  serve  her.  As  soon  as  he 
was  gone,  Herminia's  nerve  gave  way.  She 
flung  herself  into  a  chair,  and  sobbed  long  and 
violently. 

It  was  no  time  for  her,  of  course,  to  think 
about  money.  Sore  pressed  as  she  was,  she 
had  just  enough  left  to  see  her  safely  through 
her  confinement.  Alan  had  given  her  a  few 
pounds  for  housekeeping  when  they  first  got 
into  the  rooms,  and  those  she  kept;  they  were 
hers;  she  had  not  the  slightest  impulse  to 
restore  them  to  his  family.  All  he  left  was 
hers  too,  by  natural  justice;  and  she  knew  it. 
He  had  drawn  up  his  will,  attestation  clause 
and  all,  with  even  the  very  date  inserted  in 
pencil,  the  day  before  they  quitted  London 
together;  but  finding  no  friends  at  the  club  to 


132 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


r    .' 


! 


i 


witness  it,  he  had  put  off  executing  it;  and  so 
had  left  Herminia  entirely  to  her  own  resources. 
In  the  delirium  of  his  fever,  the  subject  never 
occurred  to  him.  But  no  doubt  existed  as  to 
the  nature  of  his  last  wishes;  and  if  Herminia 
herself  had  been  placed  in  a  similar  position 
to  that  of  the  Merrick  family,  she  would  have 
scorned  to  take  so  mean  an  advantage  of  the 
mere  legal  omission. 

By  this  time,  of  course,  the  story  of  her  fate 
had  got  across  to  England,  and  was  being  read 
and  retold  by  each  man  or  woman  after  his  or 
her  own  fashion.  The  papers  mentioned  it,  as 
seen  through  the  optic  lens  of  the  society  jour- 
nalist, with  what  strange  refraction.  Most  of 
them  descried  in  poor  Herminia's  tragedy  noth- 
ing but  material  for  a  smile,  a  sneer,  or  an 
innuendo.  The  Dean  himself  wrote  to  her,  a 
piteous,  paternal  note,  which  bowed  her  down 
more  than  ever  in  her  abyss  of  sorrow.  He 
wrote  as  a  dean  must,  —  gray  hairs  brought 
down  with  sorrow  to  the  grave;  infinite  mer^-y 
of  Heaven;  still  room  for  repentance;  but  oh, 
to  keep  away  from  her  pure  young  sisters!  Her- 
minia answered  with  dignity,  but  with  profound 
emotion.  She  knew  her  father  too  well  not  to 
sympathize  greatly  with  his  natural  view  of  so 
fatal  an  episode. 

So  she  stopped  on  alone  for  her  dark  hour 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


133 


in  Perugia.  She  stopped  on,  untended  by  any 
save  unknown  Italians  whose  tongue  she  hardly 
spoke,  and  uncheered  by  a  friendly  voice  at  the 
deepest  moment  of  trouble  in  a  woman's  his- 
tory. Often  for  hours  together  she  sat  alone 
in  the  cathedral,  gazing  up  at  a  certain  mild- 
featured  Madonna,  enshrined  above  an  altar. 
The  unwedded  widow  seemed  to  gain  some  com- 
fort from  the  pitying  face  of  the  maiden  mother. 
Every  day,  while  still  she  could,  she  walked 
out  along  the  shadeless  suburban  road  to  Alan's 
grave  in  the  parched  and  crowded  cemetery. 
Women  trudging  along  with  crammed  creels  on 
their  backs  turned  round  to  stare  at  her.  When 
she  could  no  longer  walk,  she  sat  at  her  window 
towards  San  Luca  and  gazed  at  it.  There  lay 
the  only  friend  she  possessed  in  Perugia,  per- 
haps in  the  universe. 

The  dreaded  day  arrived  at  last,  and  her 
strong  constitution  enabled  Herminia  to  live 
through  it.  Her  baby  was  born,  a  beautiful 
little  girl,  soft,  delicate,  wonderful,  with  Alan's 
blue  eyes,  and  its  mother's  complexion.  Those 
rosy   feet    saved    Herminia.     As    she   clasped 

them    in  her   hands  —  tiny  feet,  tender  feet 

she  felt  she  had  now  something  left  to  live 
for,— her  baby,  Alan's  baby,  the  baby  with  a 
future,  the  baby  that  was  destined  to  regenerate 
humanity. 


I>  !    ;! 


■  I 

I 


» 

|:|!. 


**  ■  1^ 


>!• 


1- Si 
I' 


LI 

I' 


134 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


So  warm!     So  small!     Alan's  soul  and  her 
own,  mysteriously  blended. 

Still,  even  so,  she  couldn't  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  give  any  joyous  name  to  dead  Alan's 
child.  Dolores  she  called  it,  at  Alan's  grave. 
In  sorrow  had  she  borne  it;  its  true  name  was 
Dolores. 


ler 


ler 


'C. 

as 


THE  WOiMAN   WHO   DID. 


135 


XIII. 


It  was  a  changed  London  to  which   Herminia 
returned.     She  was  homeless,  penniless,  friend- 
less.     Above  all  she  was  dklass^e.     The  world 
that   had   known   her   now  knew  her  no  more. 
Women    who    had    smothered    her   with    their 
Judas  kisses   passed   her  by  in   their   victorias 
with  a  stony  stare.     Even  men  pretended  to  be 
looking  the  other  way,  or  crossed  the  street  to 
avoid  the  necessity  for   recognizing  her.      "  So 
awkward  to  be  mixed  up  with  such  a  scandal!  " 
She  hardly  knew  as  yet  herself  how  much  her 
world   was    changed   indeed;    for    had    she    not 
come  back  to  it,  the  mother  of  an  illegitimate 
daughter?     But  she  began  to  suspect  it  the  very 
first   day  when  she  arrived   at   Charing   Cross, 
clad  in  a  plain   black  dress,  with   her   baby  at 
her  bosom.      Her  first  task  was  to  find  rooms; 
her  next   to  find  a  livelihood.      Even  the  first 
involved  no  small    relapse   from   the  purity   ol 
her  principles.     After  long  hours  of  vain  hunt- 
ing, she  found  at  last  she  could  only  get  lodg- 


1-  ■,■■ 
il 


! 


\M 


t'-a  ■{ 


136 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


ings  for  herself  and  Alan's  child  by  telling  a 
virtual  lie,  against  which  her  soul  revolted. 
She  was  forced  to  describe  herself  as  Mrs. 
Barton;  she  must  allow  her  landlady  to  sup- 
pose she  was  really  a  widow.  Woe  unto  you, 
scribes  and  hypocrites!  in  all  Christian  Lon- 
don Miss  Barton  and  her  baby  could  never 
have  found  a  "respectable"  room  in  which  to 
lay  their  heads.  So  she  yielded  to  the  inev- 
itable, and  took  two  tiny  attics  in  a  small 
street  off  the  Edgware  Road  at  a  moderate 
rental.  To  live  alone  in  a  cottage  as  of  yore 
would  have  been  impossible  now  she  had  a 
baby  of  her  own  to  tend,  besides  earning  her 
livelihood;  she  fell  back  regretfully  on  the 
lesser  evil  of  lodgings. 

To  earn  her  livelihood  was  a  hard  task,  though 
Herminia's  indomitable  energy  rode  down  all 
obstacles.  Teaching,  of  course,  was  now  quite 
out  of  the  question ;  no  English  parent  could 
intrust  the  education  of  his  daughters  to  the 
hands  of  a  woman  who  has  dared  and  suffered 
much,  for  conscience'  sake,  in  the  cause  of 
freedom  for  herself  and  her  sisters.  But  even 
before  Herminia  went  away  to  Perugia,  she  had 
acquired  some  small  journalistic  connection; 
and  now,  in  her  hour  of  need,  she  found  not 
a  few  of  the  journalistic  leaders  by  no  means 
unwilling    to   sympathize   and   fraternize   with 


'U 


X 


V 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


137 


her.  To  be  sure,  they  did  n't  ask  the  free  wo- 
man to  their  homes,  nor  invite  her  to  meet  their 
own  women:  —  even  an  enlightened  journalist 
must  draw  a  line  somewhere  in  the  matter  of 
society;  but  they  understood  and  appreciated 
the  sincerity  of  her  motives,  and  did  what  they 
could  to  find  employment  and  salary  for  her. 
Herminia  was  an  honest  and  conscientious 
worker;  she  knew  much  about  many  things; 
and  nature  had  gifted  her  with  the  instinctive 
power  of  writing  clearly  and  unaffectedly  the 
English  language.  So  she  got  on  with  editors. 
Who  could  resist,  indeed,  the  pathetic  charm  of 
that  girlish  figure,  simply  clad  in  unobtrusive 
black,  and  sanctified  in  every  feature  of  the 
shrinking  face  by  the  beauty  of  sorrow  ?  Not  the 
men  who  stand  at  the  head  of  the  one  English 
profession  which  more  than  all  others  has  es- 
caped the  leprous  taint  of  that  national  moral 
blight  that  calls  itself  "respectability." 

In  a  slow  and  tentative  way,  then,  Herminia 
crept  back  into  unrecognized  recognition.  It 
was  all  she  needed.  Companionship  she  liked  ; 
she  hated  society.  That  mart  was  odious  to 
her  where  women  barter  their  bodies  for  a  title, 
a  carriage,  a  place  at  the  head  of  some  rich 
man's  table.  Bohemia  sufficed  her.  Her  ter- 
rible widowhood,  too,  was  rendered  less  terrible 
to  her  by  the  care  of  her  little  one.     Babbling 


138 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


Ur 


\^X^ 


I 


l< 


lips,  pattering  feet,  made  heaven  in  her  attic. 
Every  good  woman  is  by  nature  a  mother,  and 
finds  best  in  maternity  her  social  and  moral 
salvation.  She  shall  be  saved  in  child-bearing. 
Herminia  was  far  removed  indeed  from  that  blat- 
ant and  decadent  sect  of  "  advanced  women  "  who 
talk  as  though  motherhood  were  a  disgrace  and 
a  burden,  instead  of  being,  as  it  is,  the  full 
realization  of  woman's  faculties,  the  natural 
outlet  for  woman's  wealth  of  emotion.  She 
knew  that  to  be  a  mother  is  the  best  privilege 
of  her  sex,  a  privilege  of  which  unholy  man- 
made  institutions  now  conspire  to  deprive  half 
the  finest  and  noblest  women  in  our  civilized  com 
munities.  Widowed  as  she  was,  she  still  pitied 
the  unhappy  beings  doomed  to  the  cramped  life 
and  dwarfed  heart  of  the  old  maid  ;  pitied  them  as 
sincerely  as  she  despised  those  unhealthy  souls 
who  would  make  of  celibacy,  wedded  or  un- 
wedded,  a  sort  of  anti-natural  religion  for  women. 
Alan's  death,  however,  had  left  Hcrminia's  ship 
rudderless.  Her  mission  had  failed.  That  she 
acknowledged  herself.  She  lived  now  for 
Dolores.  The  child  to  whom  she  had  given 
the  noble  birthright  of  liberty  was  destined 
from  her  cradle  to  the  apostolate  of  women. 
Alone  of  her  sex,  she  would  start  in  life  eman- 
cipated. While  others  must  say,  "With  a  great 
sum  obtained  I   this  freedom,"  Dolores   could 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


139 


answer  with  Paul,  " But  I  was  free  born."     That 
was  no  mean  heritage. 

Gradually  Herminia  got  work  to  her  mind; 
work  enough  to  support  her  in  the  modest  way 
that  sufficed  her  small  wants  for  herself  and  her 
baby.     In  London,  given  time  enough,  you  can 
live  down  anything,  perhaps  even  the  unspeak- 
able sin  of  having  struck  a  righteous  blow  in 
the   interest  of  women.     And   day  by  day,  as 
months  and  years  went  on,   Hermin;a  felt  she 
was  living  down  the  disgrace  of  having  obeyed 
an   enlightened    conscience.     She    even   found 
friends.     Dear  old  Miss  Smith-Waters  used  to 
creep  round  by  night,  like  Nicodemus  — respect- 
ability would  not  have  allowed  her  to  perform 
that   Christian  act  in  open    daylight,— and  sit 
for  an  hour   or   two   with   her  dear  misguided 
Herminia.     Miss  Smith-Waters  prayed  nightly 
for  Herminia's  "conversion,"  yet   not   without 
an  uncomfortable  suspicion,  after  all,  that  Her- 
minia had  very  little  indeed  to  be  "converted" 
from.     Other  people  also  got  to  know  her  by 
degrees;  an  editor's  wife;  a  kind   literary  host- 
ess;   some  socialistic    ladies  who    liked    to   be 
"advanced;"    a  friendly  family  or  two  of   the 
Bohemian  literary  or  artistic  pattern.     Among 
them  Herminia  learned  to  be  as  happy  in  time 
as  she  could  ever  again  be,  now  she  had  lost  her 
Alan.     She  was  Mrs.  Barton  to  them  all;  that 


u 


III 

I 

r 


"i 


140 


THE  WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


i  " 


V' 


f'Bl 


ii*  t ' 


it'  .i 


i  :  1'   ' 


lie  she  found  it  practically  impossible  to  fight 
against.  Even  the  Bohemians  refused  to  let 
their  children  ask  after  Miss  Barton's  baby. 

So  wrapt  in  vile  falsehoods  and  conventions 
are  we.  So  far  have  we  travelled  from  the 
pristine  realities  of  truth  and  purity.  We  lie 
to  our  children  —  in  the  interests  of  morality. 

After  a  time,  in  the  intervals  between  doing 
her  journalistic  work  and  nursing  Alan's  baby, 
Herminia  found  leisure  to  write  a  novel.  It 
was  seriously  meant,  of  course,  but  still  it  was 
a  novel.  That  is  every  woman's  native  idea  of 
literature.  It  reflects  the  relatively  larger  part 
which  the  social  life  plays  in  the  existence  of 
women.  If  a  man  tells  you  he  wants  to  write  a 
book,  nine  times  out  of  ten  he  means  a  treatise 
or  argument  on  some  subject  that  interests 
him.  Even  the  men  who  take  in  the  end  to 
writing  novels  have  generally  begun  with  other 
aims  and  other  aspirations,  and  have  only  fallen 
back  upon  the  art  of  fiction  in  the  last  resort 
as  a  means  of  livelihood.  But  when  a  woman 
tells  you  she  wants  to  write  a  book,  nine  times 
out  of  ten  she  means  she  wants  to  write  a  novel. 
For  that  task  nature  iias  most  often  endowed 
her  richly.  Her  quicker  intuitions,  her  keener 
interest  in  social  life,  her  deeper  insight  into 
the  passing  play  of  emotions  and  of  motives, 
enable  her  to  paint  well  the  complex  ir.terrela- 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


141 


tions   of  every-day  existence.      So   Hcrminia, 
like  the  rest,  wrote  her  own  pet  novel. 

By  the  time  her  baby  was  eighteen   months 
old,  she  had  finished  it.     It  was  blankly  pessi- 
mistic, of  course.     Blank  pessimism  is  the  one 
creed  possible  for  all  save  fools.     To  hold  any 
other  is  to  curl  yourself  up  selfishly  in  your 
own    easy   chair,   and    say   to    your  soul,    "O 
soul,   eat    and    drink;    O   soul,     make    merry. 
Carouse  thy  fill.     Ignore  the  maimed  lives,  the 
stricken  heads  and  seared  hearts,  the  reddened 
fangs  and    ravening  claws  of  nature  all  round 
thee."     Pessimism  is  sympathy.     Optimism  is 
selfishness.     The  optimist  folds  his  smug  hands 
on  his  ample  knees,  and  murmurs  contentedly, 
"The  Lord  has  willed  it;"  "There  must  always 
be  rich  and  poor;"  "Nature  has,  after  all,  her 
great    law   of    compensation."     The    pessimist 
knows  well  self-deception  like  that  is  either  a 
fraud  or  a  blind,  and  recognizing  the  seething 
mass  of  misery  at  his  doors  gives  what  he  cant 
—  his  pity,  or,  where  possible,  his  faint  aid,  in 
redressing  the  crying  inequalities  and  injustices 
of  man  or  nature. 

All  honest  art  is  therefore  of  necessity  pes- 
simistic. Hcrminia's  romance  was  something 
more  than  that.  It  was  the  despairing  heart- 
cry  of  a  soul  in  revolt.  It  embodied  the  experi- 
ences and  beliefs  and  sentiments  of  a  martyred 


■■ 


1 


^■^ 


■)(■ 


142 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DH). 


woman.  It  enclosed  a  lofty  ethical  purpose. 
She  wrote  it  with  fiery  energy,  for  her  baby's 
sake,  on  waste  scraps  of  paper,  at  stray  moments 
snatched  from  endless  other  engagements.  And 
as  soon  as  it  was  finished,  she  sent  it  in  fear 
and  trembling  to  a  publisher. 

She  had  chosen  her  man  well.  He  was  a 
thinker  himself,  and  he  sympathized  with 
thinkers.  Though  doubtful  as  to  the  venture, 
he  took  all  the  risk  himself  with  that  gener- 
osity one  so  often  sees  in  the  best-abused  of 
professions.  In  three  or  four  weeks'  time  "A 
Woman's  World "  came  out,  and  Hc-ninia 
waited  in  breathless  anxiety  for  the  vei  ■"  of 
the  reviewers. 

For  nearly  a  month  she  waited  in  vain. 
Then,  one  Friday,  as  she  was  returning  by 
underground  railway  from  the  Strand  to  Edge- 
ware  Road,  with  Dolores  in  her  arms,  her  eye 
fell  as  she  passed  upon  the  display-bill  of  the 
"Spectator."  Sixpence  was  a  great  deal  of 
money  to  Herminia;  but  bang  it  went  reck- 
lessly when  she  saw  among  the  contents  an 
article  headed,  "A  Very  Advanced  Woman's 
Novel."  She  felt  sure  it  must  be  hers,  and  she 
was  not  mistaken.  Breathlessly  she  ran  over 
that  first  estimate  of  her  work.  It  was  with  no 
little  elation  that  she  laid  down  the  number. 

Not  that  the  critique  was  by  any  means  at 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


143 


all  favorable.  How  could  Hcrniinia  expect  it 
in  such  a  quarter.^  Hut  the  "Spectator"  is  at 
least  conspicuously  fair,  thouj^h  it  remains  in 
other  ways  an  interesting  and  ivy-clad  medix^val 
relic.  "Let  us  begin  by  admitting,"  said  the 
Spectatorial  scribe,  "that  Miss  Montague's 
book "  (she  had  published  it  under  a  pseu- 
donym) "  is  a  work  of  genius.  Much  as  we 
dislike  its  whole  tone,  and  still  more  its  con- 
clusions, the  gleam  of  pure  genius  shines  forth 
undeniable  on  every  page  of  it.  Whoever  takes 
it  up  must  read  on  against  his  will  till  he  has 
finished  the  last  line  of  this  terrible  tragedy;  a 
hateful  fascination  seems  to  hold  and  compel 
him.  Its  very  purity  makes  it  dangerous.  The 
book  is  mistaken;  the  book  is  poisonous;. the 
book  is  morbid;  the  book  is  calculated  to  do 
irremediable  mischief;  but  in  spite  of  all  that, 
the  book  is  a  book  of  undeniable  and  sadly  mis- 
placed genius." 

If  he  had  said  no  more,  Herminia  would  have 
been  amply  satisfied.  To  be  called  morbid  by 
the  "  Spectator  "  is  a  sufficient  proof  that  you 
have  hit  at  least  the  right  tack  in  morals.  And 
to  be  accused  of  genius  as  well  was  indeed  a 
triumph.  No  wonder  Herminia  went  home  to 
her  lonely  attic  that  night  justifiably  elated. 
She  fancied  after  this  her  book  must  make  a 
hit.     It  might  be  blamed  and  reviled,  but  at 


'  I 


i' 


144 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


any  rate  it  was  now  safe  from  the  ignominy  of 
oblivion. 

Alas,  how  little  she  knew  of  the  mysteries  of 
the  book-market!  As  little  as  all  the  rest  of 
us.  Day  after  day,  from  that  afternoon  forth, 
she  watched  in  vain  for  succeeding  notices. 
Not  a  single  other  paper  in  England  reviewed 
her.  At  the  libraries,  her  romance  was  never 
so  much  as  asked  for.  And  the  reason  for 
these  phenomena  is  not  far  to  seek  by  those 
who  know  the  ways  of  the  British  public.  For 
her  novel  was  earnestly  and  sincerely  written ; 
it  breathed  a  moral  air,  therefore  it  was  voted 
dull ;  therefore  nobody  cared  for  it.  The  "  Spec- 
tator" had  noticed  it  because  of  its  manifest 
earnestness  and  sincerity ;  for  though  the  "  Spec- 
tator" is  always  on  the  side  of  the  lie  and  ihe 
wrong,  it  is  earnest  and  sincere,  and  has  a  gen- 
uine sympathy  for  earnestness  and  sincerity, 
even  on  the  side  of  truth  and  righteousness. 
Nobody  else  even  looked  at  it.  People  said  to 
themselves,  "This  book  seems  to  be  a  book  with 
a  teaching  not  thoroughly  banal^  like  the  novels - 
with-a-purpose  after  which  we  flock;  so  we'll 
give  it  a  wide  berth." 

And  they  shunned  it  accordingly. 

That  was  the  end  of  Herminia  Barton's  lit- 
erary aspirations.  She  had  given  the  people  of 
her  best,  and  the  people  rejecied  it.     Now  she 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


145 


gave  them  of  her  most  mediocre;  the  nearest 
to  their  own  level  of  thought  and  feeling  to 
which  her  hand  could  reduce  itself.  And  the 
people  accepted  it  The  rest  of  her  life  was 
hack-work;  by  that,  she  could  at  least  earn  a 
living  for  Dolores.  Her  "Antigone,  for  the 
Use  of  Ladies'  Schools"  still  hole',  its  own  at 
Girton  and  Somerville. 


to 


Hi 


146 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


1,1    ■'' 


:;! 


XIV. 

I  DO  not  propose  to  dwell  at  any  length  upon 
the  next  ten  or  twelve  years  of  Herminia  Bar- 
ton's life.  An  episode  or  two  must  suffice;  and 
those  few  told  briefly. 

She  saw  nothing  of  her  family.  Relations 
had  long  been  strained  between  them;  now  they 
were  ruptured.  To  the  rest  of  the  Bartons,  she 
was  even  as  one  dead;  the  sister  and  daughter's 
name  was  never  pronounced  among  them.  But 
once,  when  little  Dolores  was  about  five  years 
old,  Herminia  happened  to  pass  a  church  door 
in  Marylebone,  where  a  red-lettered  placard 
announced  in  bold  type  that  the  Very  Reverend 
the  Dean  of  Dunwich  would  preach  there  on 
Sunday.  It  flashed  across  her  mind  that  this 
was  Sunday  morning.  An  overpowering  desire 
to  look  on  her  father's  face  once  more — she 
had  never  seen  her  mother's — impelled  Her 
minia  to  enter  those  unwonted  portals.  The 
Dean  was  in  the  pulpit.  He  looked  stately  and 
dignified  in  his  long  white  hair,  a  noticeable 
man,  tall  and  erect  to  the  last,  like  a  storm- 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


147 


beaten  pine;  in  spite  of  his  threescore  years  and 
ten,    his  clear-cut  face   shone   thoughtful,   and 
striking,  and  earnest  as  ever.     He  was  preach- 
ing from  the  text,   "I  press  toward  the  mark 
for  the   prize   of   the   high  calling."     And   he 
preached,  as  he   always  did,    eloquently.      His 
river  of  speech  flowed  high  between  banks  out 
of   sight   of    the    multitude.      There   was    such 
perfect   sincerity,   such   moral  elevation    in   all 
he  said,  that  Herminia  felt  acutely,  as  she  had 
often   felt    before,  the    close    likeness    of   fibre 
which  united  her  to  him,   in  spite  of  extreme 
superficial    differences    of    belief    and    action. 
She  felt  it  so  much  that  when  the  sermon  was 
over   she   waited    at   the   vestry   door   for   her 
father   to   emerge.     She   couldn't    let    him  go 
away  without  making  at  least  an  effort  to  speak 
with  him. 

When  the  Dean  came  out,  a  gentle  smile  still 
playing  upon  his  intellectual  face,  —for  he  was  X 
one  of  the  few  parsons  who  manage  in  their  old  V 
age  to  look  neither  sordid  nor  inane,  —he  saw 
standing  by  the  vestry  door  a  woman  in  a  plain 
black  dress,  like  a  widow  of  the  people.  She 
held  by  the  hand  a  curly-haired  little  girl  of 
singularly  calm  and  innocent  expression.  The 
woman's  dark  hair  waved  gracefully  on  her  high 
forehead,  and  caught  his  attention.  Her  eyes 
were  subtly  sweet,    her  mouth  full   of  pathos. 


in 


I 


148 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


!l' 


She  pressed  forward  to  speak  to  him ;  the  Dean, 
all  benignity,  bent  his  head  to  listen. 

"Father!"  Herminia  cried,  looking  up  at 
him. 

The  Dean  started  back.  The  woman  who 
thus  addressed  him  was  barely  twenty-eight, 
she  might  well  have  been  forty;  grief  and  hard 
life  had  made  her  old  before  her  time.  Her 
face  was  haggard.  Beautiful  as  she  still  was, 
it  was  the  beauty  of  a  broken  heart,  of  a  Mater 
Dolorosa,  not  the  roundfaced  beauty  of  the 
fresh  young  girl  who  had  gone  forth  rejoicing 
some  ten  years  earlier  from  the  Deanery  at 
Dunwich  to  the  lecture-rooms  at  Girton.  For 
a  moment  the  Dean  stared  hard  at  her.  Then 
with  a  burst  of  recognition  he  uttered  aghast 
the  one  word  "Herminia!" 

"Father,"  Herminia  answered,  in  a  tremu- 
lous voice,  "  I  have  fought  a  good  fight ;  I  hav^i 
pressed  toward  the  mark  for  the  prize  of  a  high 
calling.  And  when  I  heard  you  preach,  I  felt 
just  this  once,  let  come  what  come  might,  I 
must  step  forth  to  tell  you  so." 

The  Dean  gazed  at  her  with  melting  eyes. 
Love  and  pity  beamed  strong  in  them.  "  Have 
you  come  to  repent,  my  child.?"  he  asked,  with 
solemn  insistence. 

"Father,"  Herminia  made  answer,  lingering 
lovingly  on  the  word,  "  I  have  nothing  to  repent 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


149 


of.  I  have  striven  hard  to  do  well,  and  have 
earned  scant  praise  for  it.  But  I  come  to  ask 
to-day  for  one  grasp  of  your  hand,  one  word  of 
your  blessing.     Father,  father,  kiss  me!  " 

The  old  man  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
height,  with  his  silvery  hair  round  his  face. 
Tears  started  to  his  eyes;  his  voice  faltered. 
But  he  repressed  himself  sternly.  "No,  no, 
my  child,"  he  answered.  "My  poor  old  heart 
bleeds  for  you.  But  not  till  you  come  with  full 
proofs  of  penitence  in  your  hands  can  I  ever 
receive  you.  I  have  prayed  for  you  without 
ceasing.  God  grant  you  may  repent.  Till 
then,  I  command  you,  keep  far  away  from  me, 
and  from  your  untainted  sisters." 

The  child  felt  her  mother's  hand  tremble 
quivering  in  her  own,  as  she  led  her  from  the 
church;  but  never  a  word  did  Herminia  say, 
lest  her  heart  should  break  with  it.  As  soon 
as  she  was  outside,  little  Dolly  looked  up  at 
her.  (It  had  dwindled  from  Dolores  to  Dolly 
in  real  life  by  this  time;  years  bring  these 
mitigations  of  our  first  fierce  outbursts.)  "Who 
was  that  grand  old  gentleman.?"  the  child 
asked,  in  an  awe-struck  voice. 

And  Herminia,  clasping  her  daughter  to  her 
breast,  answered  with  a  stifled  sob,  "That  was 
your  grandpa,  Dolly;  that  was  my  father,  my 
father."  ^ 


! 
f 


150 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


\ ! -I 


ii  ; 
(If; 


I: 


The  child  put  no  more  questions  just  then  as 
is  the  wont  of  children;  but  she  treasured  up 
the  incident  for  long  in  her  heart,  wondering 
much  to  herself  why,  if  her  grandpa  was  so 
grand  an  old  gentleman,  she  and  her  mamma 
should  have  to  live  by  themselves  in  such 
scrubby  little  lodgings.  Also,  why  her  grand- 
pa, who  looked  so  kind,  should  refuse  so  severely 
to  kiss  her  mammy. 

It  was  the  b'^ginning  of  many  doubts  and 
questionings  to  Dolores.  A  year  later,  the 
Dean  died  suddenly.  People  said  he  might 
have  risen  to  be  a  bishop  in  his  time,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  unfortunate  episode  about 
his  daughter  and  young  Merrick.  Herminia 
was  only  once  mentioned  in  his  will;  and  even 
then  merely  to  implore  the  divine  forgiveness 
for  her.  She  wept  over  that  sadly.  She  did  n't 
want  the  girls'  money,  she  was  better  able  to 
take  care  of  herself  than  Elsie  and  Ermyntrude; 
but  it  cut  her  to  the  quick  that  her  father 
should  have  quitted  the  world  at  last  without 
one  word  of  reconciliation. 

However,  she  went  on  working  placidly  at  her 
hack-work,  and  living  for  little  Dolly.  Her 
one  wish  now  was  to  make  Dolly  press  toward 
the  mark  for  the  prize  of  the  high  calling  she 
herself  by  mere  accident  had  missed  so  nar- 
rowly.    Her  own  life  was  done;  Alan's  death 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


E51 


had  made  her  task  impossible;  but  if  Dolly 
could  fill  her  place  for  the  sake  of  humanity, 
she  would  not  regret  it.  Enough  for  her  to 
have  martyred  herself;  she  asked  no  mercenary 
palm  and  crown  of  martyrdom. 

And  she  was  happy  in  her  life;  as  far  as  a 
certain  tranquil  sense  of  duty  done  could  make 
her,  she  was  passively  happy.  Her  kind  of 
journalism  was  so  commonplace  and  so  anony- 
mous that  she  was  spared  that  worst  insult  of 
seeing  her  hack-work  publicly  criticised  as 
though  it  afforded  some  adequate  reflection  of 
the  mind  that  produced  it,  instead  of  being 
merely  an  index  of  taste  in  the  minds  of  those 
for  whose  use  it  was  intended.  So  she  lived  for 
years,  a  machine  for  the  production  of  articles 
and  reviews;  and  a  devoted  mother  to  little 
developing  Dolly. 

On  Dolly  the  hopes  of  half  the  world  now 
centred. 


152 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


m 
m 

!!  t 


s   :• 


1  i! 


V 


XV. 

Not  that  Herminia  had  not  at  times  hard 
struggles  and  sore  temptations.  One  of  the 
hardest  and  sorest  came  when  Dolly  was  about 
six  years  old.     And  this  was  the  manner  of  it. 

One  day  the  child  who  was  to  reform  the 
world  was  returning  from  some  errand  on  which 
her  mother  had  sent  her,  when  her  attention 
was  attracted  by  a  very  fine  carriage,  stopping 
at  a  door  not  far  from  their  lodgings.  Now 
Dolly  had  always  a  particular  weakness  for 
everything  "grand;  "  and  so  grand  a  turn-out  as 
this  one  was  rare  in  their  neighborhood.  She 
paused  and  stared  hard  at  it.  "Whose  is  it, 
Mrs.  Biggs.?"  she  asked  awe-struck  of  the 
friendly  charwoman,  who  happened  to  pass  at 
the  moment, — the  charwoman  who  frequently 
came  in  to  do  a  day's  cleaning  at  her  mother's 
lodging-house.  Mrs.  Biggs  knew  it  well; 
"It's  Sir  Anthony  Merrick's,"  she  answered 
in  that  peculiarly  hushed  voice  with  which 
the  English  poor  always  utter  the  names  of  the 


THE   WOMAN   WHO  DID. 


153 


titled  classes.  And  so  in  fact  it  was;  for  the 
famous  gout  doctor  had  lately  been  knighted 
for  his  eminent  services  in  saving  a  royal  duke 
from  the  worst  effects  of  his  own  self-indul- 
gence. Dolly  put  one  fat  finger  to  her  lip, 
and  elevated  her  eyebrows,  and  looked  grave 
at  once.  Sir  Anthony  Merrick!  What  a  very 
grand  gentleman  he  must  be  indeed,  and  how 
nice  it  must  seem  to  be  able  to  drive  in  so  dis- 
tinguished  a  vehicle  with  a  liveried  footman. 

As  she  paused  and  looked,  lost  in  enjoyment 
of  that  beatific  vision,  Sir  Anthony  himself 
emerged  from  the  porch.  Dolly  took  a  good 
stare  at  him.  He  was  handsome,  austere,  close- 
shaven,  implacable.  His  profile  was  clear-cut, 
like  Trajan's  on  an  aureus.  Dolly  thought  that 
was  just  how  so  grand  a  gentleman  ought  to 
look;  and,  so  thinking,  she  glanced  up  at  him, 
and  with  a  flash  of  her  white  teeth,  smiled  her 
childish  approval.  The  austere  old  gentleman, 
unwontedly  softened  by  that  cherub  face, -- for 
indeed  she  was  as  winsome  as  a  baby  angel 
of  Raphael's,  —  stooped  down  and  patted  the 
bright  curly  head  that  turned  up  to  him  so 
trustfully.  "  What 's  your  name,  little  woman  ? " 
he  asked,  with  a  sudden  wave  of  gentleness. 

And  Dolly,  all  agog  at  having  arrested  so 
grand  an  old  gentleman's  attention,  spoke  up 
in  her  clear  treble,  "  Dolores  Barton. " 


I  i 


Hi 


,1  ! 


t    ! 


1-  I 


154 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


Sir  Anthony  started.  Was  this  a  trap  to 
entangle  him  ?  He  was  born  suspicious,  and 
he  feared  that  woman,  liut  he  looked  into 
Dolly's  blue  eyes  of  wonder,  and  all  doubt  fled 
from  him.  Was  it  blood .^  was  it  instinct.^  was 
it  unconscious  nature.^  At  any  rate,  the  child 
seemed  to  melt  the  grandfather's  heart  as  if  by 
magic.  Long  years  after,  when  the  due  time 
came,  Dolly  remembered  that  melting.  To 
the  profound  amazement  of  the  footman,  who 
stood  with  the  carriage-door  ready  open  in  his 
hand,  the  old  man  bent  down  and  kissed  the 
child's  red  lips.  "God  bless  you,  my  dear!" 
he  murmured,  with  unwonted  tenderness  to  his 
son's  daughter.  Then  he  took  out  his  purse, 
and  drew  from  it  a  whole  gold  sovereign. 
"That'^  for  you,  my  child,"  he  said,  fondling 
the  pretty  golden  curls.  "  Take  it  home,  and 
tell  your  mammy  an  old  man  in  the  street  gave 
it  to  you." 

But  the  coachman  observed  to  the  footman, 
as  they  drove  on  together  to  the  next  noble 
patient's,  "You  may  take  your  oath  on  it,  Mr. 
Wells,  that  little  'un  there  was  Mr.  Alan's 
love-child!" 

Dolly  had  never  held  so  much  money  in  her 
hand  before;  she  ran  home,  clutching  it  tight, 
and  burst  in  upon  Herminia  with  the  startling 
news  that  Sir  Anthony  Merrick,  a  very  grand 


'  i< 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DH"). 


155 


gentleman  in  a  very  fine  carriage,  had  given  a 
gold  piece  to  her. 

Gold  pieces  were  rare  in  the  calm  little  attic, 
but  Herminia  caught  her  child  up  with  a  cry 
of  terror;  and  that  very  same  evening,  she 
changed  the  tainted  sovereign  with  Dolly  for 
.  another  one,  and  sent  Sir  Anthony's  back  in 
an  envelope  without  a  word  to  Harley  Street. 
The  child  who  was  born  to  free  half  the  human 
race  from  aions  of  slavery  must  be  kept  from 
all  contagion  of  man's  gold  and  man's  bribery. 
Yet  Dolly  never  forgot  the  grand  gentleman's 
name,  though  she  hadn't  the  least  idea  why  he 
gave  that  yellow  coin  to  her. 

Out   of    this   small    episode,    however,    grew 
Herminia's  great  temptation. 

For  Sir  Anthony,  being  a  man  tenacious  of 
his  purpose,  went  home  that  day  full  of  re- 
lenting thoughts  about  that  girl  Dolores.  Her 
golden  hair  had  sunk  deep  into  his  heart.  She 
was  Alan's  own  child,  after  all;  she  had  Alan's 
blue  eyes ;  and  in  a  world  where  your  daughters 
go  off  and  marry  men  you  don't  like,  while  your 
sons  turn  out  badly,  and  don't  marry  at  all  to 
vex  you,  it  's  something  to  have  some  fresh 
young  life  of  your  blood  to  break  in  upon  your 
chilly  old  age  and  cheer  you.  So  the  great 
doctor  called  a  few  days  later  at  Herminia's 
lodgings,  and  having  first  ascertained  that  Her- 


M 


:    I 


4      H 


156 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


:  1 


minia  herself  was  out,  bad  five  minutes'  conver- 
sation alone  with  her  landlady. 

There  were  times,  no  doubt,  when  Mrs.  Bar- 
ton was  ill.^  The  landlady  with  the  caution 
of  her  class,  admitted  that  might  be  so.  And 
times  no  doubt  when  Mrs.  Barton  was  for  the 
moment  in  arrears  with  her  rent  .'*  The  land- 
lady, good  loyal  soul,  demurred  to  that  sugges- 
tion;  she  knit  her  brows  and  hesitated.  Sir 
Anthony  hastened  to  set  her  mind  at  rest.  His 
intentions  were  moh.^  friendly.  He  wished  to 
keep  a  watch,  —  a  quiet,  well-meaning,  unsus- 
pected watch,  — over  Mrs.  Barton's  necessities. 
He  desired,  in  point  of  fact,  if  need  were,  to 
relieve  them.  Mrs.  Barton  was  distantly  con- 
nected with  relations  of  his  own;  and  his  notion 
was  that  without  seeming  to  help  her  in  obtru- 
sive wa)b,  he  would  li'vj  to  make  sure  Mrs. 
Barton  got  into  no  serious  difficulties.  Would 
the  landlady  be  so  good  —  a  half  sovereign 
glided  into  that  subservient  palm — as  to  let 
Sir  Anthony  know  if  she  ever  had  reason  to 
suspect  a  very  serious  strain  was  being  put  on 
Mrs.  Barton's  resources  .!* 

The  landlady,  dropping  the  modern  apology  for 
a  courtesy,  promised  with  effusion  under  pres- 
sure of  hard  cash,  to  accede  to  Sir  Anthony's 
benevolent  wishes.  The  more  so  as  she  'd  do 
anything  to  serve  dear  Mrs.   Barton,  who  was 


> : 

I'! 


I     ' 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


157 


always  in  every thint;  a  perfect  lady,  most  in- 
dependent, in  fact;  one  of  the  kind  as  would  n't 
be  beholden  to  anybody  for  a  farthin<;. 

Some  months  passed  away  befoni  the  land- 
lady had  cause  to  report  to  Sir  Anthony.  lUit 
during  the  worst  depths  of  the  next  London 
winter,  when  gray  fog  gathered  thick  in  the 
purlieus  of  Marylebone,  and  shivering  gusts 
groaned  at  the  street  corners,  poor  little  Dolly 
caught  whooping-cough  badly.  On  top  of  the 
whooping-cough  came  an  attack  of  bronchitis; 
and  on  top  of  the  bronchitis  a  serious  throat 
trouble.  Herminia  sat  up  night  after  night, 
nursing  her  child,  and  neglecting  the  work  on 
which  both  depended  for  subsistence.  Week 
by  week  things  grew  worse  and  worse;  and  Sir 
Anthony,  kept  duly  informed  by  the  landlady, 
waited  and  watched,  and  bided  his  time  in 
silence.  At  last  the  case  became  desperate. 
Herminia  had  no  money  left  to  pay  her  bill 
or  buy  food;  and  one  string  to  her  bow  after 
another  broke  down  in  journalism.  Her  place 
as  the  weekly  lady's-letter  writer  to  an  illus- 
trated paper  passed  on  to  a  substitute;  blank 
poverty  stared  her  in  the  face,  inevitable.  When 
it  came  to  pawning  the  type-writer,  as  the  land- 
lady reported.  Sir  Anthony  smiled  a  grim  smile 
to  himself.  The  moment  for  action  had  now 
arrived.     He  would  put  on  pressure  to  get  away 


!i 


158 


rilE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


1   ■   i 


I      I 


il 

I,! 


liill 

ri-i, 


'i ', ; 


poor  Alan's  illegitimate  child  from  that  dreadful 
woman. 

Next  day  he  called.  Dolly  was  dangerously 
ill, —  so  ill  that  Herminia  could  n't  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  dismiss  the  great  doctor  from  her  door 
without  letting  him  see  her.  And  Sir  Anthony 
saw  her.  The  child  recognized  him  at  once 
and  rallied,  and  smiled  at  him.  She  stretched 
her  little  arms.  She  must  surely  get  well  if  a 
gentleman  who  drove  in  so  fine  a  carriage,  and 
scattered  sovereigns  like  ha'pennies,  came  in  to 
prescribe  for  her.  Sir  Anthony  was  flattered 
at  her  friendly  reception.  Those  thin  small 
arms  touchec  the  grandfather's  heart.  "She 
will  recover/' he  said;  "but  she  needs  good 
treatment,  delicacies,  refinements."  Then  he 
slipped  out  of  the  room,  and  spoke  seriously  to 
Herminia.  "Let  her  come  to  me,"  he  urged. 
"I  '11  adopt  her,  and  give  her  her  father's  name. 
It  will  be  better  for  herself;  better  for  her 
future.  She  shall  be  treated  as  my  grand- 
daughter, well-taught,  v/ell-kept;  and  you  may 
see  her  every  six  months  for  a  fortnight's  visit. 
If  you  consent,  T  will  allow  you  a  hundred  a 
year  for  yourself.  Let  bygones  be  bygones. 
For  the  child's  sake,  say  jesf  She  needs  so 
much  that  you  can  never  give  her!" 

Poor  Herminia  was  sore  tried.     As  for  the 
hundred  a  year,  she  could  n't  dream  of  accept- 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


159 


ing  it;  but  like  a  flash  it  went  through  her 
brain  how  many  advantages  Dolly  could  enjoy 
in  that  wealthy  household  that  the  hard-work- 
ing journalist  could  not  possibly  afford  her. 
She  thought  of  the  unpaid  bills,  the  empty 
cupboard,  the  wolf  at  the  door,  the  blank  out- 
look for  the  future.  For  a  second,  she  half 
hesitated.  "Come,  come!"  Sir  Anthony  said; 
"for  the  child's  own  sake;  you  won't  be  so 
selfish  as  to  stand  in  her  way,  will  you? " 

Those  words  roused  Herminia  to  a  true  sense 
of  her  duty.  "Sir  Anthony  Merrick,"  she  said 
holding  her  breath,  "that  child  is  my  child,  and 
my  dear  dead  Alan's.  I  owe  it  to  Alan,  —  I 
owe  it  to  her,  —  to  bring  her  up  in  the  way  that 
Alan  would  approve  of.  I  brought  her  into  the 
world;  and  my  duty  is  to  do  what  I  can  to  dis- 
charge the  responsibilities  I  then  undertook  to 
her.  I  must  train  her  up  to  be  a  useful  citizen. 
Not  for  thousands  would  I  resign  the  delight 
and  honor  of  teaching  my  child  to  those  who 
would  teach  her  what  Alan  and  I  believed  to 
be  pernicious;  who  would  teach  her  to  despise 
her  mother's  life,  and  to  reject  the  holy  memory 
of  her  father.  As  I  said  to  you  before,  that  day 
at  Perugia,  so  I  say  to  you  now,  *  Thy  money 
perish  with  thee.'  You  need  never  again  come 
here  to  bribe  me." 

"Is  that   final .=*"  Sir  Anthony  asked.     And 


i6o 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


i 


H 


»; 


i 


t1  'i.i 


h 


1  i  < 


li!   '. 


H 


'i    <■ 


Herminia  answered  with  a  bow,  "Yes,  final; 
quite  final." 

Sir  Anthony  bent  his  head  and  left.  Her- 
minia stood  face  to  face  with  abject  poverty. 
Spurred  by  want,  by  indignation,  by  terror,  by  a 
sense  of  the  absolute  necessity  for  action,  she 
carried  her  writing  materials  then  and  there  into 
Dolly's  sick-room,  and  sitting  by  her  child's 
cot,  she  began  to  write,  she  hardly  knew  what, 
as  the  words  themselves  came  to  her.  In  a 
fever  of  excitement  she  wrote  and  wrote  and 
wrote.  She  wrote  as  one  writes  in  the  silence 
of  midnight.  It  was  late  before  she  finished. 
When  her  manuscript  was  complete,  she  slipped 
out  and  posted  it  to  a  weekly  paper.  It  appeared 
that  same  Saturday,  and  was  the  beginning  of 
Herminia's  most  valuable  connection. 

But  even  after  she  had  posted  it  the  dis- 
tracted mother  could  not  pause  or  rest.  Dolly 
tossed  and  turned  in  her  sleep,  and  Herminia 
sat  watching  her.  She  pined  for  sympathy. 
Vague  ancestral  yearnings,  gathering  head  with- 
in her,  made  her  long  to  pray,  —  if  only  there 
had  been  anybody  or  anything  to  pray  to.  She 
clasped  her  bloodless  hands  in  an  agony  of 
solitude.  Oh,  for  a  friend  to  comfort !  At  last 
her  overwrought  feelings  found  vent  in  verse. 
She  seized  a  pencil  from  her  desk,  and  sitting 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


I6I 


by   Dolly's    side,    wrote    dc  vn    her    heart -felt 
prayer,  as  it  came  to  her  that  moment,  — 

A  crowned  Caprice  is  go<l  of  the  world : 
On  his  stony  breast  are  his  white  wings  furled. 
No  car  to  hearken,  no  eye  to  see, 
No  heart  to  feel  for  a  man  hath  he. 

But  his  pitiless  hands  are  swift  to  smite, 
And  his  mute  lips  utter  one  word  of  might 
In  the  clash  of  gentler  souls  and  rougher  — 
•  Wrong  must  thou  do,  or  wrong  must  suffer.' 

Then  grant,  O  dumb,  blind  god,  at  least  that  we 
Rather  the  sufferers  than  the  doers  be. 


tt 


'h 


. 


\i 


K'i 


M 


162 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


XVI. 

A  CHANGE  came  at  last,  when  Dolly  was  ten 
years  old.  Among  the  men  of  whom  Herminia 
saw  most  in  these  later  days,  were  the  little 
group  of  advanced  London  socialists  who  call 
themselves  the  Fabians.  And  among  her  Fabian 
friends  one  of  the  most  active,  the  most  eager, 
the  most  individual,  was  Harvey  Kynaston. 

He  was  a  younger  man  by  many  years  than 
poor  Alan  had  been;  about  Herminia's  own 
age;  a  brilliant  economist  with  a  future  before 
him.  He  aimed  at  the  Cabinet.  When  first 
he  met  Herminia  he  was  charmed  at  one  glance 
by  her  chastened  beauty,  her  breadth  and  depth 
of  soul,  her  transparent  sincerity  of  purpose 
and  action.  Those  wistful  eyes  captured  him. 
Before  many  days  passed  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her.  But  he  knew  her  history;  and,  tak- 
ing it  for  granted  she  must  still  be  immersed  in 
regret  for  Alan's  loss,  he  hardly  even  reckoned 
the  chances  of  her  caring  for  him. 

'T  is  a  common  case.  Have  you  ever  noticed 
that  if  you  meet  a  woman,  famous  for  her  con- 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


163 


1^ 


nection  with  some  absorbing  grief,  some  his- 
toric tragedy,  you  are  half  appalled  at  first  sight 
to  find  that  at  times  she  can  laugh,  and  make 
merry,  and  look  gay  with  the  rest  of  us.  Her 
callous  glee  shocks  you.  You  mentally  expect 
her  to  be  forever  engaged  in  the  tearful  con- 
templation of  her  own  tragic  fate;  wrapt  up  in 
those  she  has  lost,  like  the  mourners  in  a 
Pict^.  Whenever  ycu  have  thought  of  her,  you 
have  connected  her  in  your  mind  with  that 
one  fact  in  her  history,  which  perhaps  ma^ 
have  happened  a  great  many  years  ago.  But 
to  you,  it  is  as  yesterday.  You  forget  that 
since  then  many  things  have  occurred  to  her. 
She  has  lived  her  life;  she  has  learned  to  smile; 
human  nature  itself  cannot  feed  for  years  on  the 
continuous  comtemplation  of  its  own  deepest 
sorrows.  It  even  jars  you  to  find  that  the  widow 
of  a  patriotic  martyr,  a  murdered  missionary, 
has  her  moments  of  enjoyment,  and  must  wither 
away  without  them. 

So,  just  at  first,  Harvey  Kynaston  was  afraid 
to  let  Herminia  see  how  sincerely  he  admired 
her.  He  thought  of  her  rather  as  one  whose 
life  is  spent,  who  can  bring  to  the  banquet  but 
the  cold  dead  ashes  of  a  past  existence.  Grad- 
ually, however,  as  he  saw  more  and  more  of 
her,  it  began  to  strike  him  that  Herminia  was 
still    in    all    essentials    a    woman.      His    own 


(  I. 


u 


4  I 


I   ;p  ■; 


If 


]  I 


■  f ! 


\ 


ji 


164 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


throbbing  heart  told  him  so  as  he  sat  and 
talked  with  her.  He  thrilled  at  her  approach. 
Bit  by  bit  the  idea  rose  up  in  his  mind  that 
this  lonely  soul  might  still  be  won.  He  set  to 
work  in  earnest  to  woo  and  win  her. 

As  for  Herminia,  many  men  had  paid  her 
attentions  already  in  her  unwedded  widowhood. 
Some  of  them,  after  the  fashion  of  men,  having 
heard  garbled  versions  of  her  tragic  story,  and 
seeking  to  gain  some  base  advantage  for  them- 
selves from  their  knowledge  of  her  past,  strove 
to  assail  her  crudely.  Them,  with  unerring 
womanly  instinct,  she  early  discerned,  and 
with  unerring  feminine  tact,  undeceived  and 
humbled.  Others,  genuinely  attracted  by  her 
beauty  and  her  patience,  paid  real  court  to 
her  heart;  but  all  these  fell  far  short  of  her 
ideal  standard.  With  Harvey  Kynaston  it  was 
different.  She  admired  him  as  a  thinker;  she 
liked  him  as  a  man ;  and  she  felt  from  the  first 
moment  that  no  friend,  since  Alan  died,  had 
stirred  her  pulse  so  deeply  as  he  did. 

For  some  months  they  met  often  at  the  Fabian 
meetings  and  elsewhere;  till  at  last  it  became 
a  habit  with  them  to  spend  their  Sunday  mornings 
on  some  breezy  wold  in  the  country  together. 
Herminia  was  still  as  free  as  ever  from  any 
shrinking  terror  as  to  what  "people  might 
say;"  as  of  old,   she  lived  her  life  for  herself 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


165 


and  her  conscience,  not  for  the  opinion  of  a 
blind  and  superstitious  majority.  On  one  such 
August  morning,  <-hey  had  taken  the  train  from 
London  to  Haslcmere,  with  Dolly  of  course  oy 
their  side,  and  then  had  strolled  up  Hind  Head 
by  tiie  beautiful  footpath  which  mounts  at  first 
through  a  chestnut  copse,  and  then  between 
heather-clad  hills  to  the  summit.  At  the  lone- 
liest turn  of  the  track,  where  two  purple  glens 
divide,  Harvey  Kynaston  seated  himself  on  Uie 
soft  bed  of  ling;  Herminia  sank  by  his  side; 
and  Dolly,  after  awhile,  not  understanding  their 
conversation,  wandered  off  by  herself  a  little 
way  afield  in  search  of  harebells  and  spotted 
orchises.  Dolly  found  her  mother's  friends 
were  apt  to  bore  her;  she  preferred  the  society 
of  the  landlady's  daughters. 

It  was  a  delicious  day.  Hard  by,  a  slow- 
worm  sunned  himself  on  the  basking  sand. 
Blue  dragon-flies  flashed  on  gauze  wings  in  the 
hollows.  Harvey  Kynaston  looked  on  Her- 
minia's  face  and  saw  that  she  was  fair.  With 
an  effort  he  made  up  his  mind  to  speak  at  last. 
In  plain  and  simple  words  he  asked  her  rever- 
ently the  .^ame  question  that  Alan  had  asked 
her  so  lon^^  ago  on  the  Holmwood. 

Herminia's  throat  flushed  a  rosy  red,  and  an 
unwonted  sense  of  pleasure  stole  over  that  hard- 
worked  frame  as  she  listened  to  his  words;  for 


1 66 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


U 


indeed  she  was  fond  of  him.  But  she  answered 
him  at  once  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 
"Harvey,  I  'm  <;lad  you  ask  me,  for  I  like  and 
admire  you.  But  I  feel  sure  beforehand  my 
answer  must  be  uo.  For  I  think  what  you  mean 
is  to  ask,  will  I  marry  you.^  " 

The  man  gazed  at  her  hard.  He  spoke  low 
and  deferentially.  "Yes,  Herminia,"  he  re- 
plied. "I  do  mean,  will  you  marry  me.^  I 
know,  of  course,  how  you  feel  about  this  matter; 
I  know  what  you  have  sacrificed,  how  deeply 
you  have  suffered,  for  the  sake  of  your  prin- 
ciples. And  that  's  just  why  I  plead  with  you 
now  to  ignore  them.  You  have  given  proof 
long  ago  of  your  devotion  to  the  right.  You 
may  surely  fall  back  this  second  time  upon  the 
easier  way  of  ordinary  humanity.  In  theory, 
Herminia,  I  accept  your  point  of  view;  I  approve 
the  equal  liberty  of  men  and  women,  politically, 
socially,  personally,  ethically.  But  in  practice, 
I  don't  want  to  bring  unnecessary  trouble  on 
the  head  of  a  woman  I  love;  and  to  live 
together  otherwise  than  as  the  law  directs  does 
bring  unnecessary  trouble,  as  yoi:  know  too 
profoundly.  That  is  the  only  reason  why  I  ask 
you  to  marry  me.  And  Herminia,  Herminia," 
he  leant  forward  appealingly,  "for  the  love's 
sake  I  bear  you,  I  hope  you  will  consent  to  it." 

His  voice  was  low  and   tender.     Herminia, 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


167 


/*' 


sick  at  heart  with  that  long  fierce  struggle 
against  overwhelming  odds,  could  almost  have 
said  j'cs  to  him.  Her  own  nature  prompted 
her;  she  was  very,  very  fond  of  him.  Ikit  she 
paused  for  a  second.  Then  she  answered  him 
gravely. 

"Harvey,"  she  said,  looking  deep  into  his 
honest  brown  eyes,  "as  we  grow  middle-aged, 
and  find  how  impossible  it  must  ever  be  to 
achieve  any  good  in  a  world  like  this,  how  sad 
a  fate  it  is  to  be  born  a  civilized  being  in  a 
barbaric  community,  I  'm  afraid  moral  impulse 
half  dies  down  within  us.  The  passionate  aim 
grows  cold;  the  ardent  glov*  fades  and  flickers 
into  apathy.  I  'm  ashamed  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  it  seems  such  weakness ;  yet  as  you  ask 
me  this,  I  think  I  zui//  tell  you.  Once  upon  a 
time,  if  you  had  made  such  a  proposal  to  me, 
if  you  had  urged  me  to  be  false  to  my  dearest 
principles,  to  sin  against  the  light,  to  deny  the 
truth,  I  would  have  flashed  forth  a  /lo  upon  you 
without  one  moment's  hesitation.  And  now,  in 
my  disillusioned  middle  age  what  do  I  feel? 
Do  you  know,  I  almost  feel  tempted  to  give 
way  to  this  Martinmas  summer  of  love,  to  stul- 
tify my  past  by  unsaying  and  undoing  every- 
thing. For  I  love  you,  Harvey.  If  I  were  to 
give  way  now,  as  George  Eliot  gave  way,  as 
almost  every  woman  who  once  tried  to   live  a 


168 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


free  life  for  her  sisters'  sake,  has  given  way  in 
the  end,  I  should  counteract  any  little  good  my 
example  has  ever  done  or  may  ever  do  in  the 
world;  and  Harvey,  strange  as  it  sounds,  I  feel 
more  than  half  inclined  to  do  it.  But  I  wiil 
not,  I  IV ill  not]  and  I'll  tell  you  why.  It's 
not  so  much  principle  that  prevents  me  now.  I 
admit  that  freely.  The  torpor  of  middle  age 
is  creeping  over  my  conscience.  It  's  simple 
regard  for  personal  consistency,  and  for  Dolly's 
position.  How  can  I  go  back  upon  the  faith 
for  which  I  have  artyred  myself.?  How  can  I 
say  to  Dolly,  •  I  would  n't  marry  your  father  in 
my  youth,  for  honor's  sake;  but  I  have  con- 
sented in  middle  life  to  sell  my  sisters'  cause 
for  a  man  I  love,  and  for  the  consideration  of 
society;  to  rehabilitate  myself  too  late  with  a 
world  I  despise  by  becoming  one  man's  slave, 
as  I  swore  I  never  wuuld  be. '  No,  no,  dear 
Harvey;  I  can't  do  that.  Some  sense  of  per- 
sonal continuity  restrains  me  still.  It  is  the 
Nemesis  of  our  youth;  we  can't  go  back  in  our 
later  life  on  the  holier  and  purer  ideals  of  our 
girlhood." 

"Then  you  say  no  definitely.?"  Harvey 
Kynaston  asked. 

Herminia's  voice  quivered.  "I  say  no 
definitely,"  she  answered;  "unless  you  can 
consent  to  live  with  me  on  the  terms  on  which 
I  lived  with  Dolly's  father." 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


169 


The  man  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  he  began 
to  plead  hard  for  reconsideration.  But  Her- 
minia's  mind  was  made  up.  She  could  n't  belie 
her  past;  she  could  n't  be  false  to  the  principles 
for  whose  sake  she  had  staked  and  lost  every- 
thing. "No,  no,"  she  said  firmly,  over  and 
over  again.  "  You  must  take  me  my  own  way, 
or  you  must  go  without  me." 

And  Harvey  Kynaston  could  n't  consent  to 
take  her  her  own  way.  His  faith  was  too  weak, 
his  ambition:,  were  too  earthly.  "Herminia," 
he  said,  before  they  parted  that  afternoon,  "we 
may  still  be  friends;  still  dear  friends  as  ever.^ 
This  episode  need  make  no  difference  to  a  very 
close  companionship.^  " 

"It  need  make  no  difference,"  Herminia  an- 
swered, with  a  light  touch  of  her  hand.  "Har- 
vey, I  have  far  too  few  friends  in  the  world 
willingly  to  give  up  one  of  them.  Come  again 
and  go  down  with  Dolly  and  me  to  Hind  Head 
as  usual  next  Sunday." 

"Thank  you,"  the  man  answered.  "Her- 
minia, I  wish  it  could  have  been  otherwise. 
But  since  I  must  never  have  you,  I  can  promise 
you  one  thing;  I  will  never  marry  any  other 
woman." 

Herminia  started  at  the  words.  "Oh,  no," 
she  cried  quickly.  "How  can  you  speak  like 
that?     How  can  you  say  anything  so  wrong,  so 


f  'I 


ii  ; 


170 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


1  ' 


untrue,  so  foolish?  To  be  celibate  is  a  very 
great  misfortune  even  for  a  woman;  for  a  man 
it  is  impossible,  it  is  cruel,  it  is  wicked.  1 
endure  it  myself,  for  my  child's  sake,  and  be- 
cause I  find  it  hard  to  discover  the  help  meet 
for  me;  or  because,  when  discovered,  he  refuses 
to  accept  me  in  the  only  way  in  which  I  can 
bestow  myself.  But  for  a  man  to  pretend  i^ 
live  celibate  is  to  cloak  hateful  wrong  under  a 
guise  of  respectability.  I  should  be  unhappy 
if  I  thought  any  man  was  doing  such  a  vicious 
thing  out  of  desire  to  please  me.  Take  some 
other  woman  on  free  terms  if  you  can ;  but  if 
you  cannot,  it  is  better  you  should  marry  than 
be  a  party  to  still  deeper  and  more  loathsome 
slavery. " 

And  from   that   day   forth   they   were    loyal 
friends,  no  more,  one  to  the  other. 


ii' 


11 


il|i: 


'V 


TIIE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


I/I 


XVII. 


And  yet  our  Herminia  was  a  woman  after  all. 
Some  three  years  later,  when  Harvey  Kynaston 
came  to  visit  her  one  day,  and  told  her  he  was 
really  going  to  be  married,  —what  sudden  thrill 
was  this  that  passed  through  and  through  her. 
Her  heart  stood  still.  She  was  aware  that  she 
regretted  the  comparative  loss  of  a  very  near 
and  dear  acquaintance. 

She  knew  she  was  quite  wrong.  It  was  the 
leaven  of  slavery.  But  these  monopolist  in- 
stincts, wbich  have  wrought  more  harm  in  the 
worl  vvt  11. e  in  than  fire  or  sword  or  pesti- 
lenc-  '^  to  pest,  hardly  die  at  all  as  yet  in  a 
f  *vv  f(o^>d  .icn,  and  die,  fighting  hard  for  life, 
even  in  the  noblest  women. 

She  reasoned  with  herself  against  so  hateful 
a  feeling.  Though  she  knew  the  truth,  she 
found  it  hard  to  follow.  No  man  indeed  is 
truly  civilized  till  he  can  say  in  all  sincerity 
to  every  woman  of  all  the  women  he  loves,  to 
every  woman  of  all  the  women  who  love  him, 


ill 


^ 


f 


i     I  1 


i'ii 


'i  I  ! 


172 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


"Gi\'e  me  what  you  can  of  your  love  and  of 
yourself;  but  never  strive  for  my  sake  to  deny 
any  love,  to  strangle  any  impulse  that  pants  for 
breath  within  you.  Give  me  what  you  can, 
while  you  can,  without  grudging,  but  the 
moment  you  feel  you  love  me  no  more,  don't 
pollute  your  own  body  by  yielding  it  up  to  a 
man  you  have  ceased  to  desire;  don't  do  injus- 
tice to  your  own  prospective  children  by  giving 
them  a  father  whom  you  no  longer  respect,  or 
admire,  or  yearn  for.  Guard  your  chastity  well. 
Be  mine  as  much  as  you  will,  as  long  as  you 
will,  to  such  extent  as  you  will,  but  before  all 
things  be  your  own;  embrace  and  follow  every 
instinct  of  pure  love  that  nature,  our  mother, 
has  imparted  within  you."  No  woman,  in  turn, 
is  truly  civilized  till  she  can  say  to  every  man 
of  all  the  men  she  loves,  of  all  the  men  who 
love  her,  "  Give  me  what  you  can  of  your  love, 
and  of  yourself;  but  don't  think  I  am  so  vile, 
and  so  selfish,  and  so  poor  as  to  desire  to 
monopolize  you.  Respect  me  enough  never  to 
give  me  your  body  without  giving  me  your 
heart;  never  to  make  me  the  mother  of  child- 
ren whom  you  desire  not  and  love  not."  When 
men  and  women  can  say  that  alike,  the  world 
will  be  civilized.  Until  they  can  say  it  truly, 
the  world  will  be  as  now  a  jarring  battlefield 
for  the  monopolist  instincts. 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


173 


Those  jealous  and  odious  instincts  have  been 
the  bane  of  humanity.  They  have  «;iven  us  the 
stiletto,  the  Morgue,  the  bowie-knife.  Our 
race  must  inevitably  in  the  end  outlive  them. 
The  test  of  man's  plane  in  the  scale  of  being 
is  how  far  he  has  outlived  them.  They  are 
surviving  relics  of  the  ape  and  tiger.  But  we 
must  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die.  We  must  cease 
to  be  Calibans.     We  must  begin  to  be  human. 

Patriotism  is  the  one  of  these  lowest  vices 
which  most  often  masquerades  in  false  garb  as 
a  virtue.  But  what  after  all  is  patriotism.^ 
"My  country,  right  or  wrong,  and  just  because 
it  is  my  country!"  This  is  clearly  nothing 
more  than  collective  selfishness.  Often  enough, 
indeed,  it  is  not  even  collective.  It  means 
merely,  ** Jlfy  business-interests  against  the 
business-interests  of  other  people,  and  let  the 
taxes  of  my  fellow-citizens  pay  to  support 
them."  At  other  times  it  means  pure  pride  of 
race,  and  pure  lust  of  conquest;  **;;/y  country 
against  other  countries;  ;;/;'  army  and  navy 
against  other  fighters;  mj'  right  to  annex  un- 
occupied territory  against  the  equal  right  of 
all  other  peoples;  ;;//  power  to  oppress  all 
weaker  nationalities,  all  inferior  races."  It 
fti'i'cr  means  or  can  mean  anyth.ing  good  or  true. 
For  if  a  cause  be  just,  like  Ireland's,  or  once 
Italy's,  then  't  is  a  good  man's  duty  to  espouse 


174 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


it'. 


r 


it  with  warmth,  be  it  his  own  or  another's. 
And  if  a  cause  be  bad,  then  't  is  a  ^ood  man's 
duty  to  oppose  it,  tooth  and  nail,  irrespective 
of  your  patriotism.  True,  a  good  man  will 
feel  more  sensitively  anxious  that  strict  justice 
should  be  done  by  the  particular  community  of 
which  chance  has  made  him  a  component  mem- 
ber than  by  any  others ;  but  then,  people  who 
feel  acutely  this  joint  responsibility  of  all  the 
citizens  to  uphold  the  moral  right  are  not 
praised  as  patriots  but  reviled  as  unpatriotic. 
To  urge  that  our  own  country  should  strive 
with  all  its  might  to  be  better,  higher,  purer, 
nobler,  more  generous  than  other  countries, 
—  the  only  kind  of  patriotism  worth  a  moment's 
thought  in  a  righteous  man's  eyes,  is  accounted 
by  most  men  both  wicked  and  foolish. 

Then  comes  the  monopolist  instinct  of  prop- 
erty. That,  on  the  face  of  it,  is  a  baser  and 
more  sordid  one.  For  patriotism  at  least  can 
lay  claim  to  some  sort  of  delusive  expansive- 
ness  beyond  mere  individual  interest;  whereas 
property  stops  short  at  the  narrowest  limits  of 
personality.  It  is  no  longer  "  Us  against  the 
world!"  but  "  ]\Ie  against  my  fellow-citizens!  " 
It  is  the  last  word  of  the  intercivic  war  in  its 
most  hideous  avatar.  Look  how  \t  scars  the 
fair  f?  :e  of  our  common  country  with  its  anti- 
social notice-boards,  "Trespassers  will  be  pros- 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DU). 


175 


ecutcd. "  It  says  in  effect  "This  is  my  land. 
As  I  believe,  God  made  it;  but  I  have  acquired 
it,  and  tabooed  it  to  myself,  for  my  own  enjoy- 
ment. The  grass  on  the  vv(jld  grows  green ; 
but  only  for  me.  The  mountains  rise  glorious 
in  the  morning  sun;  no  foot  of  man,  save  mine 
and  my  gillies'  shall  tread  them.  The  water- 
falls leap  white  from  the  ledge  in  the  glen; 
avaunt  there,  non -possessors;  your  eye  shall 
never  see  them.  For  you  the  muddy  street; 
for  me,  miles  of  upland.  All  this  is  my  own. 
And  I  choose  to  monopolize  it." 

Or  is  it  the  capitalist?  "  I  will  add  field  to'\ 
field,"  he  cries  aloud,  despite  his  own  Scripture; 
"I  will  join  railway  to  railway.  I  will  juggle 
into  my  own  hands  all  the  instruments  for  the 
production  of  wealth  that  my  cunning  can  lay 
hold  of;  and  I  will  use  them  for  my  own  purposes 
agamst  producer  and  consumer  alike  with  impar- 
tial egoism.  Corn  and  coal  shall  lie  in  the  hol- 
low of  my  hand.  I  will  enrich  myself  bv  making 
dear  by  craft  the  necessaries  of  life;  the  poor 
shall  lack,  that  I  may  roll  down  fair  streets  in 
needless  luxury.  Let  them  starve,  and  feed 
me!"  That  temper,  too,  humanity  must  out- 
live. And  those  who  are  incapable  of  outliviuir 
it  of  themselves  must  be  taught  by  stern  les- 
sons, as  in  the  splendid  uprising  of  the  spirit  of 
man  in  France,  that  their  race  has  outstripped  y 
them. 


1'  ' 


i» 


i  .f 


(t 


176 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


Next  comes  the  monopoly  of  human  life,  the 
hideous  wrong  of  slavery.  That,  thank  good- 
ness, is  now  gone.  'T  was  the  vilest  of  Ihem 
all — the  nakedest  assertion  of  the  monopolist 
platform:  — "  Vou  live,  not  for  yourself,  but 
wholly  and  solely  for  me.  I  disregard  your 
claims  to  your  own  body  and  soul,  and  use  you 
as  my  chattel."  That  worst  form  has  died. 
It  withered  away  before  the  moral  indignation 
even  of  existing  humanity.  We  have  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  one  dragon  slain,  of  knov/ing 
that  one  monopolist  instinct  at  least  is  now 
fairly  bred  out  of  us. 

Last,  and  hardest  of  all  to  eradicate  in  our 
midst,  comes  the  monopoly  of  the  human  heart, 
which  is  known  as  marriage.  Based  upon  the 
primitive  habit  of  felling  the  woman  with  a  blow, 
stunning  her  by  repeated  strokes  of  the  club 
or  spear,  and  dragging  her  off  by  the  hair  of 
her  head  as  a  slave  to  her  captor's  hut  or  rock- 
shelter,  this  ugly  and  barbaric  form  of  serfdom 
has  come  in  our  own  time  by  some  strange 
caprice  to  be  regarded  as  of  positively  divine 
origin.  The  Man  says  now  to  himself,  "This 
woman  is  mine.  Law  and  the  Church  have 
bestowed  her  on  me.  Mine  for  better,  for 
worse;  mine,  drunk  or  sober.  If  she  ventures 
to  have  a  heart  or  a  will  of  her  owmi,  woe  betide 
her!     I  have  tabooed  her  for  life:  l'.*t  arv  other 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


^77 


man  touch  her,  let  her  so  much  as  cast  eyes  on 
any  other  man  to  admire  or  desire  him — and, 
knife,  dagger,  or  law-court,  they  shall  both  of 
them  answer  for  it."  There  you  have  in  all  its 
native  deformity  another  monopolist  instinct  — 
the  deepest-seated  of  all,  the  grimmest,  tlie 
most  vindictive.  "She  is  not  yours,"  says  the 
moral  philosopher  of  the  new  dispensation; 
"she  is  her  own;  release  her!  The  Turk  hales 
his  offending  slave,  sews  her  up  in  a  sack,  and 
casts  her  quick  into  the  eddying  Hosphorus. 
The  Christian  luiglishman,  with  more  linger- 
ing torture,  sets  spies  on  her  life,  drags  what 
he  thinks  her  shame  before  a  prying  court,  and 
divorces  her  with  contumely.  All  this  is  mo- 
nopoly, and  essentially  slavery.  Mankind  must 
outlive  it  on  its  way  up  to  civilization." 

And  then  the  Woman,  thus  taught  by  her 
lords,  has  begun  to  retort  in  these  latter  days 
by  endeavoring  to  enslave  the  Alan  in  return. 
Unable  to  conceive  the  bare  idea  of  freedom  for 
both  sexes  alike,  she  seeks  ecjuality  in  an  e(|ual 
slavery.  That  she  will  never  achieve.  Tlie 
future  is  to  the  free.  \W'  have  transcended 
serfdom.  Women  shall  henceforth  be  the 
equals  of  men,  not  by  levelling  down,  but  by 
levelling  up;  not  by  fettering  the  man,  but 
by  elevating,  emancipating,  unshackling  the 
woman. 


ti« 


i 


12 


178 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


\l. 


All  this  Hcrminia  knew  well.  All  these  things 
she  turned  over  in  her  mind  by  herself  on  the 
evening  of  the  day  when  Ilarvey  Kynaston  came 
to  tell  her  of  his  approaching  marriage.  Why, 
then,  did  she  feel  it  to  some  extent  a  disap- 
pointment.^ Why  so  flat  at  his  happiness.? 
Partly,  she  said  to  herself,  because  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  live  down  in  a  single  generation  the  jeal- 
ousies and  distrusts  engendered  in  our  hearts  by 
so  many  ages  of  harem  life.  Hut  more  still, 
she  honestly  believed,  because  it  is  hard  to  be 
a  free  soul  in  an  enslaved  community.  No  unit 
can  wholly  sever  itself  from  the  social  organism 
of  which  it  is  a  corpuscle.  If  all  the  world 
were  like  herself,  her  lot  would  have  been  dif- 
ferent. Affection  would  have  been  free;  her 
yearnings  for  sympathy  would  have  been  filled 
to  the  full  by  Harvey  Kynaston  or  some  other. 
As  it  was,  she  had  but  that  one  little  fraction 
of  a  man  friend  to  solace  her;  to  resign  him 
altogether  to  another  woman,  leaving  herself 
bankrupt  of  love,  was  indeed  a  bitter  trial  to 
her. 

Yet  for  her  principles'  sake  and  Dolly's,  she 
never  let  Ilarvey  Kynaston  or  his  wife  suspect 
it;  as  long  as  she  lived,  she  was  a  true  and 
earnest  friend  at  all  times  tc  both  of  them. 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


'79 


XVIII. 


Mea/while,  Dolores  was  growing  up  to  woman's 
estate.  And  she  was  growing  into  a  tall,  a 
graceful,  an  exquisitely  beautiful  woman. 

Yet  in  some  ways  Herminia  had  reason  to  be 
dissatisfied  with  her  daughter's  development. 
Day  by  day  she  watched  for  signs  of  the  ex- 
pected apostolate.  Was  Dolores  pressing  for- 
ward to  the  mark  for  the  prize  of  her  high 
calling.^  Her  mother  half  doubted  it.  Slowly 
and  regretfully,  as  the  grcnving  girl  approached 
the  years  when  she  might  be  expected  to  think 
for  herself,  Herminia  began  to  perceive  that 
the  child  of  so  many  hopes,  of  so  many  aspi- 
rations, the  child  pre-destined  to  regenerate 
humanity,  was  thinking  for  herself —  in  a  retro- 
grade direction.  Incredible  as  it  seemed  to 
Herminia,  in  the  daughter  of  such  a  father  and 
such  a  mother,  Dolores'  ideas  —  nay,  worse  her 
ideals  —  were  essentially  commonplace.  Not 
that  she  had  much  opportunity  of  imbibing 
commonplace  opinions  from  any  outside  source; 
she   redeveloped   them   from   wilhin    by  a   pure 


i8o 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


ili! 


m 


f 


effort  of  atavism.     She  had  reverted  to   lower 
types.     She  had  thrown  back  to  the  Philistine. 

Heredity  of  mental  and  moral  qualities  is  a 
precarious  matter.  These  thin^^s  lie,  as  it  were, 
on  the  topmost  plane  of  character;  they  smack 
of  the  individual,  and  are  therefore  far  less 
likely  to  persist  in  offspring  than  the  deeper- 
seated  and  better-established  peculiarities  of 
the  family,  the  clan,  the  race,  or  the  species. 
They  are  idiosyncratic.  Indeed,  when  we  re- 
member how  greatly  the  mental  and  moral 
faculties  differ  from  brother  to  brother,  the 
product  of  the  same  two  parental  factors,  can 
we  wonder  that  they  differ  much  more  from 
father  to  son,  the  product  of  one  like  factor 
alone,  diluted  by  the  addition  of  a  relatively 
unknown  quality,  the  maternal  influence?  How- 
ever this  may  be,  at  any  rate,  Dolores  early 
began  to  strike  out  for  herself  all  the  most 
ordinary  and  stereotyped  opinions  of  l^ritish 
respectability.  It  seemed  as  if  they  sprang  up 
in  her  by  unmitigated  reversion.  She  had 
never  heard  in  the  society  of  her  mother's  lodg- 
ings any  but  the  freest  and  most  rational  ideas; 
yet  she  herself  seemed  to  hark  back,  of  internal 
congruity,  to  the  lower  andvulgarer  moral  plane 
of  her  remoter  ancestry.  She  showed  her  indi- 
viduality only  by  evolving  for  herself  all  the 
threadbare  platitudes  of  ordinary  convention. 


THE  WOMAM   WHO   DID. 


I8l 


Moreover,  it  is  not  parents  who  have  most  to 
do  with  moulflinj;  the  sentiments  antl  opinions 
of  their  children.  From  the  bej^innin^,  Dolly 
thought  better  of  the  landlady's  views  and 
ideas  than  of  her  mother's.  When  she  went  to 
school,  she  considered  the  moral  standpoint  of 
the  other  girls  a  great  deal  more  sensible 
than  the  moral  standpoint  of  Ilerminia's  attic. 
She  accepted  the  beliefs  and  opinions  of  her 
schoolfellows  because  they  were  natural  and 
congenial  to  her  character.  In  short,  she  had 
what  the  world  calls  common-sense:  she  re- 
volted from  the  unpractical  Utopian  ism  of  her 
mother. 

From  a  very  early  age,  indeed,  this  false  note 
in  Dolly  had  begun  to  make  itself  heard. 
While  she  was  yet  quite  a  child,  Ilerminia 
noticed  with  a  certain  tender  but  shrinking 
regret  that  Dolly  seemed  to  attach  undue  im- 
portance to  the  mere  upholsteries  and  ecjui- 
pages  of  life, — to  rank,  wealth,  title,  servants, 
carriages,  jewelry.  At  first,  to  be  sure,  Iler- 
minia hoped  this  might  prove  but  the  passing 
foolishness  of  childhood:  as  Dolly  grew  up, 
however,  it  became  clearer  each  day  that  the 
defect  was  in  the  grain  —  that  Dolly's  whole 
mind  was  incurably  and  congenital ly  arij»t(i- 
cratic  or  snobbish.  She  had  that  mean  admira- 
tion for  birth,  position,  adventitious  advantages, 


i^: 


182 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


■i 


,  I 


which  is  the  mark  of  the  beast  in  the  essentially 
aristocratic  or  sn<)l)l)ish  nature.  She  aclmired 
people  because  tliey  were  rich,  because  they 
'••ere  high-placed,  because  they  were  courted, 
because  they  were  respected;  not  because  they 
were  good,  because  they  were  wise,  because 
they  were  noble-natured,  because  they  were 
respect-worthy. 

lUiteven  that  was  not  all.  In  time,  Ilerminia 
began  to  perceive  with  still  profounder  sorrow 
that  Dolly  had  no  spontaneous  care  or  regard 
for  righteousness.  Right  and  wrong  meant  to 
her  only  what  was  usual  and  the  opposite.  She 
seemed  incapable  of  considering  the  intrinsic 
nature  of  any  act  in  itself  apart  from  the  praise 
or  blame  meted  out  to  it  by  society.  In  short, 
she  was  sunk  in  the  same  ineffable  slough  of 
moral  darkness  as  the  ordinary  inhabitant  of 
the  morass  of  London. 

To  Ilerminia  this  slow  discovery,  as  it 
dawned  bit  by  bit  upon  her,  put  the  final  thorn 
in  her  crown  of  martyrdom.  The  child  on 
whose  education  she  had  spent  so  much  pains, 
the  child  whose  success  in  the  deep  things 
of  life  was  to  atone  for  her  own  failure,  the 
child  who  was  born  to  be  the  apostle  of  free- 
dom to  her  sisters  in  darkness,  had  turned  out 
in  the  most  earnest  essentials  of  character  a 
complete  disappointment,  and  had  ruined  the 
last  hope  that  bound  her  to  existence. 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


183 


Hittercr  trials  remained.      Ilerminia  had  acted 
through  life  to  a  great  extent  with  the  idea  ever 
consciously  present   to  her  mind  that  she  must 
answer  to  Dolly  for  every  act  and  every  feeling. 
She  had  done  all  she  did  with  a  deep  sense  of 
responsibility.     Now  it  loomed  by  degrees  upon 
her  aching  heart  that  Dolly's  verdict  would  in 
almost  every  case  be  a  hostile  one.     The  daugh- 
ter was  growing   old    enough   to  question  and 
criticise    her   mother's    proceedings;    she   was 
beginning  to  understand  that  some  mysterious 
difference  marked  off  her  own  uncertain  posi- 
tion   in    life   from    the    solid    position    of    the 
children    who    surrounded    her  —  the    children 
born  under  those  special    circumstances  which 
alone  the  man-made  law  chooses  to  stamp  with 
the  seal  of  its   recognition.      Dolly's   curiosity 
was    shyly   aroused    as    to    her    dead    father's 
family.      Herminia  had  done  her   best   to   pre- 
pare betimes  for  this  inevitable  result   by  set- 
ting  before   her  child,    as    soon    as    she    could 
understand    it,   the   true    moral   doctrine   as    to 
the   duties    of    parenthood.      But    Dolly's    own 
development    rendered    all    such    steps    futile. 
There    is    no    more    silly   and    persistent    error 
than  the  belief  of  parents  that  they  can  influ- 
ence to  any  appreciable  extent  the  moral  ideas 
and   impulses  of  their  children.      These  things 
have  their   springs   in  the  bases  of  character: 


T 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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V 


Photographic 

^Sdences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


1 84 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


1 1  ■ 


I-      ! 


I'  *      ,1: 


li! 


they  arc  the  flower  of  individuality;  and  they 
cannot  be  altered  or  affected  after  birth  by  the 
foolishness  of  preaching.  Train  up  a  child  in 
the  way  he  should  go,  and  when  he  is  old,  you 
will  find  soon  enough  he  will  choose  his  own 
course  for  himself  and  depart  from  it. 

Already  when  Dolly  was  a  toddling  little 
mite  and  met  her  mother's  father  in  the  church 
in  Marylebone,  it  had  struck  her  as  odd  that 
while  they  themselves  were  so  poor  and  ill-clad, 
her  grandpapa  should  be  such  a  grand  old  gentle- 
man of  such  a  dignified  aspect.  As  she  grew 
older  and  older,  and  began  to  understand  a 
little  more  the  world  she  lived  in,  she  won- 
dered yet  more  profoundly  how  it  could  happen, 
if  her  grandpapa  was  indeed  the  Very  Rev- 
erend, the  Dean  of  Dunwich,  that  her  mamma 
should  be  an  outcast  from  her  father's  church, 
and  scarcely  well  seen  in  the  best  carriage  com- 
pany. She  had  learnt  that  deans  are  rather 
grand  people  —  almost  as  much  so  as  admirals; 
that  they  wear  shovel-hats  to  distinguish  them 
from  the  common  ruck  of  rectors;  that  they 
lived  in  fine  houses  in  a  cathedral  close;  and 
that  they  drive  in  a  victoria  with  a  coachman 
in  livery.  So  much  essential  knowledge  of 
the  church  of  Christ  she  had  gained  for  herself 
by  personal  observation ;  for  facts  like  these 
were    what    interested    Dolly.     She    could  n't 


ii! 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DH). 


185 


understand,  then,  why  she  and  her  mother 
should  live  precariously  in  a  very  small  attic; 
should  never  be  visited  by  her  mother's  brothers, 
one  of  whom  she  knew  to  be  a  Prebendary  of 
Old  Sarum,  while  the  other  she  saw  gazetted  as 
a  Colonel  of  Artillery;  and  should  be  totally 
ignored  by  her  mother's  sister,  Ermyntrude, 
who  lolled  in  a  landau  down  the  sunny  side  of 
Bond  Street. 

At  first,  indeed,  it  only  occurred  to  Dolly  that 
her  mother's  extreme  and  advanced  opinions  had 
induced  a  social  breach  between  herself  and  the 
orthodox  members  of  her  family.  Even  that 
Dolly  resented ;  why  should  mamma  hold  ideas 
of  her  own  which  shut  her  daughter  out  from 
the  worldly  advantages  enjoyed  to  the  full  by 
the  rest  ot  her  kindred?  Dolly  had  no  partic- 
ular religious  ideas;  the  subject  didn't  interest 
her;  and  besides,  she  thought  the  New  Testa- 
ment talked  about  rich  and  poor  in  much  the 
same  unpractical  nebulous  way  that  mamma 
herself  did — in  fact,  she  regarded  it  with  some 
veiled  contempt  as  a  rather  sentimental  radical 
publication.  But,  she  considered,  for  all  that, 
that  it  was  probably  true  enough  as  far  as  the 
facts  and  the  theology  went ;  and  she  could  n't 
understand  why  a  person  like  mamma  should 
cut  herself  off  contumaciously  from  the  rest  of 
the  world  by  presuming  to  disbelieve  a  body  of 


'  ie!  i  i 


!      i 


;',:        '. 

,1 

lin 

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It 


1 86 


THE  WOMAN   WHO  DID. 


doctrine  which  so  many  rich  and  wcll-gaitered 
bishops  held  worthy  of  credence.  All  stylish 
society  accepted  the  tenets  of  the  Church  of 
England.  But  in  time  it  began  to  occur  to 
her  that  there  might  be  some  deeper  and,  as 
she  herself  would  have  said,  more  disgraceful 
reason  for  her  mother's  alienation  from  so 
respectable  a  family.  For  to  Dolly,  that  was 
disgraceful  which  the  world  held  to  be  so. 
Things  in  themselves,  apart  from  the  world's 
word,  had  for  her  no  existence.  Step  by  step, 
as  she  grew  up  to  blushing  womanhood,  it 
began  to  strike  her  with  surprise  that  her  grand- 
father's name  had  been,  like  her  own.  Barton. 
"Did  you  marry  your  cousin,  mamma. ^"  she 
asked  Herminia  one  day  quite  suddenly. 

And  Herminia,  flushing  scarlet  at  the  unex- 
pected question,  the  first  with  which  Dolly  had 
yet  ventured  to  approach  that  dangerous  quick- 
sand, replied  with  a  deadly  thrill,  "No,  my  dar- 
ling.    Why  do  you  ask  me.-*  " 

"Because,"  Dolly  answered  abashed,  "I  just 
wanted  to  know  why  your  name  should  be 
Barton,  the  same  as  poor  grandpapa's." 

Herminia  didn't  dare  to  say  too  much  just 
then.  "Your  dear  father,"  she  answered  low, 
"was  not  related  to  me  in  any  way." 

Dolly  accepted  the  tone  as  closing  the  dis- 
cussion for  the  present;  but  the  episode  only 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


187 


strengthened  her  underlying  sense  of  a  mystery 
somewhere  in  the  matter  to  unravel. 

In  time,  Herminia  sent  her  child  to  a  day- 
school.  Though  she  had  always  taught  Dolly 
herself  as  well  as  she  was  able,  she  felt  it  a 
matter  of  duty,  as  her  daughter  grew  up,  to  give 
her  something  more  than  the  stray  ends  of  time 
in  a  busy  journalist's  moments  of  leisure.  At 
the  school,  where  Dolly  was  received  without 
question,  on  Miss  Smith-Water's  recommenda- 
tion, she  found  herself  thrown  much  into  the 
society  of  other  girls,  drawn  for  the  most  part 
from  the  narrowly  Mammon-worshipping  ranks 
of  London  professional  society.  Here,  her^ 
native  tendencies  towards  the  real  religion  of 
England,  the  united  worship  of  Success  and 
Respectability,  were  encouraged  to  the  utmost. 
But  she  noticed  at  times  with  a  shy  shrinking 
that  some  few  of  the  girls  had  heard  vague 
rumors  about  her  mother  as  a  most  equivocal 
person,  who  didn't  accept  all  the  current  super- 
stitions, and  were  curious  to  ask  her  questions 
as  to  her  family  and  antecedents.  Crimson 
with  shame,  Dolly  parried  such  enquiries  as 
best  she  could;  but  she  longed  all  the  more 
herself  to  pierce  this  dim  mystery.  Was  it  a 
runaway  match  ?  —  with  the  groom,  perhaps,  or 
the  footman.!*  Only  the  natural  shamefacedness 
of  a  budding  girl  in  prying  into  her  mother's 


1 88 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


!:    <■■! 


H 


!!  '* 


If  !i 


■ir 


:P 


■il 


most  domestic  secrets  prevented  Dolores  from 
asking  Herminia  some  day  point-blank  all  about 
it. 

But  she  was  gradually  becoming  aware  that 
some  strange  atmosphere  of  doubt  surrounded 
her  birth  and  her  mother's  history.  It  filled 
her  with  sensitive  fears  and  self-conscious  hes- 
itations. 

And  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  Dolly  never 
really  returned  her  mother's  profound  affec^ 
tion.  It  is  often  so.  The  love  which  parents 
lavish  upon  their  children,  the  children  repay, 
not  to  parents  themselves,  but  to  the  next 
generation.  Only  when  we  become  fathers 
or  mothers  in  our  turn  do  we  learn  what  our 
fathers  and  mothers  have  done  for  us.  Thus 
it  was  with  Dolly.  When  once  the  first  period 
of  childish  dependence  was  over,  she  regarded 
Herminia  with  a  smouldering  distrust  and  a 
secret  dislike  that  concealed  itself  beneath  a 
mask  of  unfelt  caresses.  In  her  heart  of  hearts, 
she  owed  her  mother  a  grudge  for  not  having 
put  her  in  a  position  in  life  where  she  could 
drive  in  a  carriage  with  a  snarling  pug  and  a 
clipped  French  poodle,  like  Aunt  Ermyntrude's 
children.  She  grew  up,  smarting  under  a  sullen 
sense  of  injustice,  all  the  deeper  because  she 
was  compelled  to  stifle  it  in  the  profoundest 
recesses  of  her  own  heart. 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


189 


XIX. 


When  Dolly  was  seventeen,  a  pink  wild  rose 
just  unrolling  its  petals,  a  very  great  event 
occurred  in  her  history.  She  received  an  invi- 
tation to  go  and  stop  with  some  friends  in  the 
country. 

The  poor  child's  life  had  been  in  a  sense  so 
uneventful  that  the  bare  prospect  of  this  visit 
filled  her  soul  beforehand  with  tremulous  antic- 
ipation. To  be  sure,  Dolly  Barton  had  always 
lived  in  the  midmost  centre  of  the  Movement 
in  London;  she  had  known  authors,  artists, 
socialists,  the  cream  of  our  race;  she  had  been 
brought  up  in  close  intercourse  with  the  men 
and  women  who  are  engaged  in  revolutionizing 
and  remodelling  humanity.  But  this  very  fact 
that  she  had  always  lived  in  the  Thick  of  Things 
made  a  change  to  the  Thin  of  Things  only  by  so 
much  the  more  delicious  and  enchanting.  Not 
that  Dolores  had  not  seen  a  great  deal,  too,  of 
the  country.  Poor  as  they  were^  her  mother 
had  taken  her  to  cheap  little  seaside  nooks  for 
a  week  or  two  of  each  summer;  she  had  made 


(   :' 


I    i 

1^  I 


190 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DH). 


pilgrimages  almost  every  Sunday  in  spring  or 
autumn  to  Leith  Hill  or  Mapledurham;  she 
had  even  strained  her  scanty  resources  to  the 
utmost  to  afford  Dolly  an  occasional  outing  in 
the  Ardennes  or  in  Normandy.  But  what  gav^e 
supreme  importance  to  this  coming  visit  was 
the  special  fact  that  Dolly  was  now  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  to  find  herself  "in  society." 

Among  the  friends  she  had  picked  up  at  her 
Marylebone  day-school  were  two  west-country 
girls,  private  boarders  of  the  head-mistress's, 
who  came  from  the  neighborhood  of  Combe 
Neville  in  Dorset.  Their  name  was  Compson, 
and  their  father  was  rector  of  their  native  vil- 
lage, Upcombe.  Dolly  liked  them  very  much, 
and  was  proud  of  their  acquaintance,  because 
they  were  reckoned  about  the  most  distinguished 
pupils  in  the  school,  their  mother  being  the 
niece  of  a  local  viscount.  Among  girls  in 
middle-class  London  sets,  even  so  remote  a 
connection  with  the  title-bearing  classes  is 
counted  for  a  distinction.  So  when  Winnie 
Compson  asked  Dolly  to  go  and  stop  with  her 
at  her  father's  rectory  during  three  whole  weeks 
of  the  summer  holidays,  Dolly  felt  that  now 
at  last  by  pure  force  of  native  worth  she  was 
rising  to  her  natural  position  in  society.  It 
flattered  her  that  Winnie  should  select  her  for 
such  an  honor. 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


191 


The  preparations  for  that  visit  cost  Dolly 
some  weeks  of  thought  and  effort.  The  occa- 
sion demanded  it.  She  was  afraid  she  had  no 
frocks  good  enough  for  such  a  grand  house  as 
the  Compsons'.  "Grand"  was  indeed  a  fav- 
orite epithet  of  Dolly's;  she  applied  it  impar- 
tially to  everything  which  had  to  do,  as  she 
conceived,  with  the  life  of  the  propertied  and 
privileged  classes.  It  was  a  word  at  once  of 
cherished  and  revered  meaning  —  the  shibboleth 
of  her  religion.  It  implied  to  her  mind  some- 
thing remote  and  unapproachable,  yet  to  be 
earnestly  striven  after  with  all  the  forces  at  her 
disposal.  Even  Herminia  hx^rself  stretched  a 
point  in  favor  of  an  occasion  which  she  could 
plainly  see  Dolly  regarded  as  so  important;  she 
managed  to  indulge  her  darling  in  a  couple  of 
dainty  new  afternoon  dresses,  which  touched  for 
her  soul  the  very  utmost  verge  of  allowable  lux- 
ury. The  materials  were  oriental ;  the  cut  was 
the  dressmaker's  —  not  home-built,  as  usual. 
Dolly  looked  so  brave  in  them,  with  her  rich 
chestnut  hair  and  her  creamy  complexion,  — a 
touch,  Herminia  thought,  of  her  Italian  birth- 
place,—  that  the  mother's  full  heart  leapt  up  to 
look  at  her.  It  almost  made  Herminia  wish  she 
was  rich  —  and  anti-social,  like  the  rich  people 
' —  in  order  that  she  might  be  able  to  do  ample 
justice  to  the  exquisite  grace  of  Dolly's  unfold- 


192 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


ing  figure.  Tall,  lissome,  supple,  clear  of  limb 
and  light  of  footstep,  she  was  indeed  a  girl  anv 
mother  might  have  been  proud  of. 

On  the  day  she  left  London,  Herminia 
thought  to  herself  she  had  never  seen  her  child 
look  so  absolutely  lovely.  The  unwonted  union 
of  blue  eyes  with  that  olive-gray  skin  gave  a 
tinge  of  wayward  shyness  to  her  girlish  beauty. 
The  golden  locks  had  ripened  to  nut-brown,  but 
still  caught  stray  gleams  of  nestling  sunlight. 
'T  was  with  a  foreboding  regret  that  Herminia 
kissed  Dolly  on  both  peach-bloom  cheeks  at 
parting.  She  almost  fancied  her  child  must  be 
slipping  from  her  motherly  grasp  when  she 
went  off  so  blithely  to  visit  these  unknown 
friends,  away  down  in  Dorsetshire.  Yet  Dolly 
had  so  few  amusements  of  the  sort  young  girls 
require  that  Herminia  was  overjoyed  this 
opportunity  should  have  come  to  her.  She 
reproached  hers».^f  not  a  little  in  her  sensitive 
heart  for  even  feeling  sad  at  Dolly's  joyous 
departure.  Yet  to  Dolly  it  was  a  delight  to 
escape  from  the  atmosphere  of  Herminia's 
lodgings.     Those  calm  heights  chilled  her. 

The  Compsons'  house  was  quite  as  "grand"  in 
the  reality  as  Dolly  had  imagined  it.  There 
was  a  man-servant  in  a  white  tie  to  wait  at 
table,  and  the  family  dressed  every  evening  for 
dinner.     Yet,  much  to  her  surprise,  Dolly  found 


'     !,i 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DH). 


»93 


from  the  first  the  grandeur  did  not  in  the  least 
incommode  her.     On  the  contrary,  she  enjoyed 
it.     She  felt  forthwith  she  was  to  the  manner 
born.     This  was  clearly  the  life  she  was  intended 
by  nature  to  live,  and  mi^^ht  actually  have  been 
living  — she,   the  granddaughter  of  so  grand  a 
man  as   the    late    Dean   of    Dunwich  —  had    it 
not  been  for  poor  Mamma's  ridiculous  fancies. 
Mamma  was  so  faddy!     Before  Dolly  had  spent 
three  whole  days  at  the  rectory,  she  talked  just 
as  the  Compsons  did;  she  picked   up  by  pure 
instinct    the    territorial    slang   of    the   county 
families.     One   would    have   thought,    to    hear 
her  discourse,  she  had  dressed  for  dinner  every 
night  of  her  life,  and   passed   her  days  in  the 
society  of  the  beneficed  clergy. 

But  even  that  did   not  exhaust  the  charm  of 
Upcombe  for  Dolly.     For  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  she  saw  something  of  men,—  real  men,  with 
horses  and  dogs  and  guns  —  men  who  went  out 
partridge  shooting  in   the  season   and   rode  to 
hounds  across  country,  not  the  pale  abstractions 
of  cultured  humanity  who  attended  the  Fabian 
Society  meetings  or  wrote  things  called  articles 
in  the  London   papers.      Her  mother's  friends 
wore  soft  felt   hats  and   limp  woollen   collars; 
these  real  men  were  richly  clad  in  tweed  suits 
and  fine  linen.     Dolly  was  charmed  with  them 
all,  but  especially  with  one  handsome  and  manly 


194 


TIIK   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


)       ^ 


I  '. 


I'l  (■; 


!« 


young  fellow  named  Walter  Brydges,  the  step- 
son and  ward  of  a  neighboring  parson.  "How 
you  talked  with  him  at  tennis  to-day!  "  Winnie 
Compson  said  to  her  friend,  as  they  sat  on  the 
edge  of  Dolly's  bed  one  evening.  "He  seemed 
quite  taken  with  you." 

A  pink  spot  of  pleasure  glowed  on  Dolly's 
round  cheek  to  think  that  a  real  young  man,  in 
good  society,  whom  she  met  at  so  grand  a  house 
as  the  Compsons',  should  seem  to  be  quite  taken 
with  her. 

"Who  is  he,  Winnie.^"  she  asked,  trying  to 
look  less  self-conscious.  "  He 's  extremely 
good-looking." 

"Oh,  he's  Mr.  Hawkshaw's  stepson,  over  at 
Combe  Mary,"  Winnie  answered  with  a  nod. 
"  Mr.  Hawkshaw  's  the  vicar  there  till  Mamma's 
nephew  is  ready  to  take  the  living  —  what  they 
call  a  warming  pan.  But  Walter  Brydges  is 
Mrs.  Hawkshaw's  son  by  her  first  husband. 
Old  Mr.  Brydges  was  the  squire  of  Combe 
Mary,  and  Walter  's  his  only  child.  He  's  very 
well  off.  You  might  do  worse,  dear.  He  's 
considered  quite  a  catch  down  in  this  part  of 
the  country." 

"How  old  is  he?"  Dolly  asked,  innocently 
enough,  standing  up  by  the  bedside  in  her 
dainty  white  nightgown.  But  Winnie  caught 
at  her  meaning  with  the  preternatural  sharpness 


PI 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


I9S 


of  the  girl  brought  up  in  immediate  contact  with 
the  landed  interest.  "Oh,  he's  of  age,"  she 
answered  quickly,  with  a  knowing  nod.  "  He  \s 
come  into  the  property ;  he  has  nobody  on  earth 
but    himself    to    consult    about    his    domestic 


arrangements. 


Dolly  was  young;  Dolly  was  pretty;  Dolly's 
smile  won  the  world;  Dolly  was  still  at  the 
sweetest  and  most  susceptible  of  ages.  Walter 
Brydges  was  well  off;  Walter  lirydges  was 
handsome;  Walter  Brydges  had  all  the  glamour 
of  a  landed  estate,  and  an  Oxford  education. 
He  was  a  young  Greek  god  in  a  Norfolk  shoot- 
ing-jacket. Moreover,  he  was  a  really  good  and 
pleasant  young  fellow.  Whnt  wonJ'r,  Li  fe- 
forc,  if  before  a  week  was  ou  Dolly  was  very 
really  and  seriously  in  love  with  him  ?  And 
what  wonder  if  Walter  Ikydgcs  in  turn,  cau^^ht 
by  that  maiden  glance,  was  in  love  with  Dolly? 
He  had  every  excjse,  for  she  was  Iiitl-,c,  and 
beautiful,  and  a  joyous  companion;  bcsidcift 
being,  as  the  lady's  maid  justly  remarked,  ^ 
perfect  lady. 

One  day,  after  Dolly  had  been  a  fortnight  at 
Upcombe,  the  Compsons  gave  a  picnic  in  the 
wild  Combe  undercliff.  'Tis  a  broken  wall  of 
chalk,  tumbled  picturesquely  about  in  huge 
"^hattercti  masses,  and  deliciously  overgrown 
^  ith  fern     and  blackthorn  and  golden  clusters 


iJ*!; 


.    t 


it 


196 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


of  close-creeping  rock-rose.  Mazy  paths  thread 
tangled  labyrinths  of  fallen  rock,  or  wind  round 
tall  clumps  of  holly-bush  and  bramble.  They 
lighted  their  firo  under  the  lee  of  one  such 
buttress  of  broken  cliff,  whose  summit  was  fes- 
tooned with  long  sprays  of  clematis,  or  "old 
man's  beard,"  as  the  common  west-country 
name  expressively  phrases  it.  Thistledown 
hovered  on  the  basking  air.  There  they  sat 
and  drank  their  tea,  couched  on  beds  of  fern 
or  propped  firm  against  the  rock;  and  when 
tea  was  over,  they  wandered  off,  two  and  two, 
ostensibly  for  nothing,  but  really  for  the  true 
business  of  the  picnic  —  to  afford  the  young 
men  and  maidens  of  the  group  some  chance  of 
enjoying,  unspied,  one  another's  society. 

Dolly  and  Walter  Brydges  strolled  off  by 
themselves  toward  the  rocky  shore.  There 
Walter  showed  her  where  a  brook  bubbled 
clear  from  the  fountain-head ;  by  its  brink,  blue 
veronicas  grew,  and  tall  yellow  loosestrife,  and 
tasselled  purple  heads  of  great  English  eupatory. 
Bending  down  to  the  stream  he  picked  a  little 
bunch  of  forget-me-nots,  and  handed  them  to 
her.  Dolly  pretended  unconsciously  to  pull  the 
dainty  blossoms  to  pieces,  as  she  sat  on  the 
clay  bank  hard  by  and  talked  with  him.  "  Is 
that  how  you  treat  my  poor  flowers  ? "  Walter 
asked,  looking  askance  at  her. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


197 


Dolly  glanced  down,  and  drew  back  suddenly. 
"Oh,  poor  little  things!"  she  cried,  with  a 
quick  droop  of  her  long  lashes.  "I  wasn't 
thinking  what  I  did."  And  she  darted  a  shy 
glance  at  him.  "  If  I  'd  remembered  they  were 
forget-me-nots,  I  don't  think  I  could  have  done 
it." 

She  looked  so  sweet  and  pure  in  her  budding 
innocence,  like  a  half-blown  water-lily,  that  the 
young  man,  already  more  than  two-thirds  in 
love,  was  instantly  captivated.  "Because  they 
were  forget-me-nots,  or  because  they  were  mine. 
Miss  Barton.?"  he  asked  softly,  all  timorous- 
ness. 

"Perhaps  a  little  of  both,"  the  girl  answered, 
gazing  down,  and  blushing  at  each  word  a  still 
deeper  crimson. 

The  blush  showed  sweet  on  that  translucent 
skin.  Walter  turned  to  her  with  a  sudden 
impulse.  "And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
them  now?''  he  enquired,  holding  his  breath  for 
joy  and  half-suppressed  eagerness. 

Dolly  hesitated  a  moment  with  genuine 
modesty.  Then  her  liking  for  the  well-knit 
young  man  overcame  her.  With  a  frightened 
smile  her  hand  stole  to  her  bodice;  she  fixed 
them  in  her  bosom.  "Will  that  do?"  she 
asked   timidly. 

"Yes,  that  w/// do,"  the  young  man  answered, 


■ 


^ ;  V, 


198 


THE   WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


bending  forward  and  seizing  rier  soft  fingers  in 
his  own.  "That  will  do  very  well.  And,  Miss 
Barton — Dolores  — I  take  it  as  a  sign  you 
don't  wholly  dislike  me." 

"  I  like  you  very  much,"  Dolly  answered  in  a 
low  voice,  pulling  a  rock  rose  from  a  cleft  and 
tearing  it  nervously  to  pieces. 

"Do  you  /ove  me,  Dolly.?"  the  young  man 
insisted. 

Dolly  turned  her  glance  to  him  tenderly,  then 
withdrew  it  in  haste.  "  I  think  I  mighty  in 
time,"  she  answered  very  slowly. 

"Then  you  will  be  mine,  mine,  mine?" 
Walter  cried  in  an  ecstasy. 

Dolly  bent  her  pretty  head  in  reluctant 
assent,  with  a  torrent  of  inner  joy.  The  sun 
flashed  in  her  chestnut  hair.  The  triumph  of 
that  moment  was  to  her  inexpressible. 

But  as  for  Walter  Brydges,  he  seized  the 
blushing  face  boldly  in  his  two  brown  hands, 
and  imprinted  upon  it  at  once  three  respectful 
kisses.  Then  he  drew  back,  half-terrified  at 
his  own  temeritv. 


u  \ 


M 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


199 


XX. 


?" 


From  that  day  forth  it  was  understood  at 
Upcombe  that  Dolly  Barton  was  informally 
engaged  to  Walter  Brydges.  Their  betrothal 
would  be  announced  in  the  "Morning  Post  "  — 
"We  learn  that  a  marriage  has  been  arranged," 
and  so  forth  —  as  soon  as  the  chosen  bride  had 
returned  to  town,  and  communicated  the  great 
news  in  person  to  her  mother.  For  reasons  of 
her  own,  Dolly  preferred  this  delay;  she  did  n't 
wish  to  write  on  the  subject  to  Herminia. 
Would  mamma  go  and  spoil  it  all?  she  won- 
dered.    It  would  be  just  like  her. 

The  remaining  week  of  her  stay  at  the  rec- 
tory was  a  golden  dream  of  delight  to  Dolly. 
Beyond  even  the  natural  ecstasy  of  first  love, 
the  natural  triumph  of  a  brilliant  engagement^ 
what  visions  of  untold  splendor  danced  hourly,' 
day  and  night,  before  her  dazzled  eyes!  What 
masques  of  magnificence!  county  balls,  garden 
parties!  It  was  heaven  to  Dolly.  She  was 
going  to  be  grander  than  her  grandest  day- 
dream. 


warn 


200 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


;i  'f 


I  '        •! 


r.l 


■'} 

;.■  . 

i: 

■'      I 

i 

'    t 

1 

i 

Walter  took  her  across  one  afternoon  to  Combe 
Mary,  and  introduced  her  in  due  form  to  his 
mother  and  his  step-father,  who  found  the  pink- 
and-vvhite  girl  "so  very  young,"  but  saw  no 
other  grave  fault  in  her.  He  even  escorted  her 
over  the  ancestral  home  of  the  masters  of  Combe 
Mary,  in  which  they  were  both  to  live,  and 
which  the  young  squire  had  left  vacant  of  set 
purpose  till  he  found  a  wife  to  his  mind  to  fill 
it.  'Twas  the  ideal  crystallized.  Rooks  cawed 
from  the  high  elms ;  ivy  clambered  to  the  gables ; 
the  tower  of  the  village  church  closed  the  vista 
through  the  avenue.  The  cup  of  Dolly's  happi- 
ness was  full  to  the  brim.  She  was  to  dwell  in 
a  manor-house  with  livery  servants  of  her  own, 
and  to  dress  for  dinner  every  night  of  her 
existence. 

On  the  very  last  evening  of  her  stay  in  Dorset- 
shire,  Walter  came  round  to  see  her.  Mrs. 
Compson  and  the  girls  managed  to  keep  dis- 
creetly out  of  the  young  people's  way;  the  rec- 
tor was  in  his  study  preparing  his  Sunday 
sermon,  which  arduous  intellectual  effort  was 
supposed  to  engage  his  close  attention  for  five 
hours  or  so  weekly.  Not  a  mouse  interrupted. 
So  Dolly  and  her  lover  had  the  field  to  them- 
selves from  eight  to  ten  in  the  rectory  drawing- 
room. 

From   the   first   moment   of   Walter's  entry, 


'!!!" 


I 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


201 


Dolly  was  dimly  aware,  womanlike,  of  some- 
thing amiss,  something  altered  in  his  manner. 
Not,  indeed,  that  her  lover  was  less  affectionate 
or  less  tender  than  usual,  —  if  anything  he 
seemed  rather  more  so;  but  his  talk  was  embar- 
rassed, pre-occupied,  spasmodic.  He  spoke  by 
fits  and  starts,  and  seemed  to  hold  back  some- 
thing. Dolly  taxed  him  with  it  at  last.  Walter 
tried  to  put  it  off  upon  her  approaching  depart- 
ure. But  he  was  an  honest  young  man,  and  so 
bad  an  actor  that  Dolly,  with  her  keen  feminine 
intuitions,  at  once  detected  him.  "It's  more 
than  that,"  she  said,  all  regret,  leaning  forward 
witn  a  quick-gathering  moisture  in  her  eye,  for 
she  really  loved  him.  "It's  more  than  that, 
Walter.  You  've  heard  something  somewhere 
that  you  don't  want  to  tell  me." 

Walter's  color  changed  at  once.  He  was  a 
man,  and  therefore  but  a  poor  dissembler. 
"Well,  nothing  very  much,"  he  admitted,  awk- 
wardly. 

Dolly  drew  back  like  one  stung;  her  heart 
beat  fast.  "  What  have  you  heard  ?  "  she  cried 
trembling;  ''Walter,  Walter,  I  love  you !  You 
must  keep  nothing  back.  Tell  me  now  what  it 
is.      I  can  bear  to  hear  it. " 

The  young  man  hesitated.  "Only  something 
my  step-father  heard  from  a  friend  last  night," 
he    replied,     floundering    deeper    and    deeper. 


i;i 


;i:4 


■Ini 

';j, 

.;.,!«: 

i  ' 

1 
! 
1 

■I 

202 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


"  Nothing  at  all  about  you,   darling.     Only  — • 
well  —  about  your  family." 

Dolly's  face  was  red  as  fire.  A  lump  rose  in 
her  throat;  she  started  in  horror.  Then  he  had 
found  out  the  Truth.  He  had  probed  the 
Mystery. 

"Something  that  makes  you  sorry  you  prom- 
ised to  marry  me.?"  she  cried  aloud  in  her 
despair.  Heaven  faded  before  her  eyes.  What 
evil  trick  could  mamma  have  played  her.? 

As  she  stood  there  that  moment  —  proud, 
crimson,  brerthless  —  Walter  Brydges  would 
have  married  her  if  her  father  had  been  a  tinker 
and  her  mother  a  gipsy  girl.  He  drew  her  tow- 
ard him  tenderly.  "No,  darling,"  he  cried, 
kissing  her,  for  he  was  a  chivalrous  young  man, 
as  he  understood  chivalry;  and  to  him  it  was 
indeed  a  most  cruel  blow  to  learn  that  his  future 
wife  was  born  out  of  lawful  wedlock.  "I'm 
proud  of  you ;  I  love  you.  I  worship  the  very 
ground  your  sweet  feet  tread  on  Nothing  on 
earth  could  make  me  anything  but  grateful  and 
thankful  for  the  gift  of  your  love  you  're  gracious 
enough  to  bestow  on  me." 

But  Dolly  drew  back  in  alarm.  Not  on  such 
terms  as  those.  She,  too,  had  her  pride ;  she,  too, 
had  her  chivalry.  "No,  no,"  she  cried,  shrink- 
ing. "  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  I  don't  know 
what  it  means.     But   till  I  've  gone   home   to 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


203 


London  and  asked  about  it  from  mother,  —  oh, 
Walter,  we  two  are  no  longer  engaged.  You 
are  free  from  your  promise." 

She  said  it  proudly;  she  said  it  bravely.  She 
said  it  with  womanly  grace  and  dignity.  Some- 
thing of  Herminia  shone  out  in  her  that  moment. 
No  man  should  ever  take  her  —  to  the  grandest 
home — unless  he  took  her  at  her  full  worth, 
pleased  and  proud  to  win  her. 

Walter  soothed  and  coaxed ;  but  Dolores 
stood  firm.  Like  a  rock  in  the  sea,  no  assault 
could  move  her.  As  things  stood  at  present, 
she  cr'ed,  they  were  no  longer  engaged.  After 
she  had  seen  her  mother  and  talked  it  all  over, 
she  would  write  to  him  once  more,  and  tell  him 
what  she  thought  of  it. 

And,  crimson  to  the  finger-tips  with  shame 
and  modesty,  she  rushed  from  his  presence  up  to 
her  own  dark  bed-room. 


204 


THE  WOMAN    ^VHO  DID. 


XXI. 


Ili  ■, 


Next  morning  early,  Dolly  left  Combe  Neville 
on  her  way  to  London.  When  she  reached  the 
station,  Walter  was  on  the  platform  with  a 
bunch  of  white  roses.  He  handed  them  to  her 
deferentially  as  she  took  her  seat  in  the  third- 
class  carriage;  and  so  sobered  was  Dolly  by  this 
great  misfortune  that  she  forgot  even  to  feel  a 
passing  pang  of  shp.me  that  Walter  should  see 
her  travel  in  that  humble  fashion.  "  Remem- 
ber," he  whispered  in  her  ear,  as  the  train 
steamed  out,  "we  are  still  engaged;  I  hold  you 
to  your  promise." 

And  Dolly,  blushing  m.aidenly  shame  and  dis- 
tress, shook  her  head  decisively.  "Not  now," 
she  answered.  "I  must  wait  till  I  know  the 
truth.  It  has  always  been  kept  from  me.  And 
now  I  wi// know  it." 

She  had  not  slept  that  night.  All  the  way 
up  to  London,  she  kept  turning  her  doubt  over. 
The  more  she  thought  of  it,  the  deeper  it  galled 
her.  Her  wrath  waxed  bitter  against  Herminia 
for    this    evil    turn    she    had    wrought.       The 


1  ii:    'f 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


205 


smouldering  anger  of  years  blazed  forth  at 
last.  Had  she  blighted  her  daughter's  life,  and 
spoiled  so  fair  a  future  by  obstinate  adherence 
to  those  preposterous  ideas  of  hers.^ 

Never  in  her  life  had  Dolly  loved  her  mother. 
At  best,  she  had  felt  towards  her  that  contempt- 
uous toleration  which  inferior  minds  often  ex- 
tend to  higher  ones.  And  now  —  v/hy,  she 
hated  her. 

In  London,  as  it  happened,  that  very  morn- 
ing, Herminia,  walking  across  Regent's  Park, 
had  fallen  in  with  Harvey  Kynaston,  and  their 
talk  had  turned  upon  this  self-same  problem. 

"What  will  you  do  when  she  asks  you  about 
it,  as  she  must,  sooner  or  later.?"  the  man 
inquired. 

And  Herminia,  smiling  that  serene  sweet 
smile  of  hers,  made  answer  at  once  without  a 
second's  hesitation,  "I  shall  confess  the  whole 
truth  to  her." 

"But  it  might  be  so  bad  for  her,"  Harvey 
Kynaston  went  on.  And  then  he  proceeded  to 
bring  up  in  detail  casuistic  objections  on  the 
score  of  a  young  girl's  modesty;  all  of  which 
fell  flat  on  Herminia's  more  honest  and  consis- 
tent temperament. 

"I  believe  in  the  truth,"  she  said  simply; 
"and  I  'm  never  afraid  of  it.  I  don't  think  a 
lie,  or  even  a  suppression,  can  ever  be  good  in 


206 


THE  V/OMAN   WHO   DID. 


■V'' 


il!* 


I  j, 
•h 


Hi 


i;i  ' 


the  end  for  any  one.  The  Truth  shall  maVc  )ou 
Free.  That  one  principle  in  life  can  guide  one 
through  everything." 

In  the  evening,  v/hen  Dolly  came  home,  her 
mother  ran  out  proudly  and  affectionately  to  kiss 
her.  But  Dolly  drew  back  her  face  with  a  gest- 
ure of  displeasure,  nay,  almost  of  shrinking. 
"  Not  now,  mother!  "  she  cried.  "  I  have  some- 
thing to  ask  you  about.  Till  I  know  the  truth, 
I  can  never  kiss  you." 

Herminia's  face  turned  deadly  white;  she 
knew  it  had  come  at  last.  But  still  she  never 
flinched.  "You  shall  hear  the  truth  from  me, 
darling,"  she  said,  with  a  gentle  touch.  "You 
have  always  heard  it." 

They  passed  under  the  doorway  and  up  the 
stairs  in  silence.  As  soon  as  they  were  in  the 
sitting-room,  Dolly  fronted  Herminia  fiercely. 
"Mother,"  she  cried,  with  the  air  of  a  wild 
creature  at  bay,  "were  you  married  to  my 
father?" 

Herminia's  cheek  branched,  and  her  pale  lips 
quivered  as  she  nerved  herself  to  answer;  but 
she  answered  bravely,  "  No,  darling,  I  was  not. 
It  has  always  been  contrary  to  my  principles  to 
marry." 

"  Your  principles ! "  Dolores  echoed  in  a  tone 
of  ineffable  scorn.  "  Your  principles !  Your 
principles!     All  my  life  has  been  sacrificed  to 


'MV 


h  ;  < 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


207 


you  and  your  principles!"  Then  she  turned 
on  her  madly  once  more.  "And  ivJio  was  my 
father?  "  she  burst  out  in  her  agony. 

Herminia  never  paused.  She  must  tell  her 
the  truth.  "Your  father's  name  was  Alan 
Merrick,"  she  answered,  steadying  herself  with 
one  hand  on  the  table.  "  He  died  at  Peru<ria 
before  you  were  born  there.  He  was  a  son  of 
Sir  Anthony  Merrick,  the  great  doctor  in 
Harley  Street." 

The  worst  was  out.  Dolly  stood  still  and 
gasped.  Hot  horror  flooded  her  burning  cheeks. 
Illegitimate!  illegitimate!  Dishonored  from  her 
birth !  A  mark  for  every  cruel  tongue  to  aim 
at !  Born  in  shame  and  disgrace !  And  then, 
to  think  what  she  might  have  been,  but  for  her 
mother's  madness!  The  granddaughter  of  two 
such  great  men  in  their  way  as  the  Dean  of 
Dunwich  and  Sir  Anthony  Merrick. 

She  drew  back,  all  aghast.  Shame  and  agony 
held  her.  Something  of  maiden  modesty  burned 
bright  in  her  cheek  and  down  her  very  neck. 
Red  waves  coursed  through  her.  How  on  earth 
after  this  could  she  face  Walter  Brydges? 

"Mother,  mother!"  she  broke  out,  sobbing, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  "oh,  what  have  you 
done.^  What  have  you  done.!*  A  cruel,  cruel 
mother  you  have  been  to  me.  How  can  I  ever 
forgive  you  "i  " 


208 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


k\ 


i: 


l< 


Horminia  gazed  at  her,  appalled.  It  was  a 
natural  tragedy.  There  was  no  way  out  of  it. 
She  could  n't  help  seizing  the  thing  at  once,  in 
a  lightning  flash  of  sympathy,  from  Dolly's  point 
of  view,  too.  Quick  womanly  instinct  made  her 
heart  bleed  for  her  daughter's  manifest  shame 
and  horror. 

"Dolly,  Dolly,"  the  agonized  mother  cried, 
flinging  herself  upon  her  child's  mercy,  as  it 
were;  "Don't  be  hard  on  me;  don't  be  hard  on 
me!  My  darling,  how  could  I  ever  guess  you 
would  look  at  it  like  this  .^  How  could  I  ever 
guess  my  daughter  and  his  would  see  things 
for  herself  in  so  different  a  light  from  the  light 
we  saw  them  in }  " 

"You  had  no  right  to  bring  me  into  the  world 
at  all,"  Dolly  cried,  growing  fiercer  as  her 
mother  grew  more  unhappy.  "If  you  did,  you 
should  have  put  me  on  an  equality  with  other 
people." 

"Dolly,"  Herminia  moaned,  wringing  her 
hands  in  her  despair,  "my  child,  my  darling, 
how  I  have  loved  you !  how  I  have  watched  over 
you!  Your  life  has  been  for  years  the  one  thing 
I  had  to  live  for.  I  dreamed  you  would  be  just 
such  another  one  as  myself.  Equal 'with,  other 
people!  Why,  I  thought  I  was  giving  you  the 
noblest  heritage  living  woman  ever  yet  gave  the 
child  of   her  bosom.     I  thought  you  would  be 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


20y 


proud  of  it,  as  I  myself  would  have  been  proud. 
I  thought  you  would  accept  it  as  a  glorious 
birthright,  a  supreme  privilege.  How  could  I 
foresee  you  would  turn  aside  from  your  mother's 
creed.?  How  could  I  anticipate  you  would  be 
ashamed  of  being  the  first  free-born  woman  ever 
begotten  in  England  }  'T  was  a  blessing  I  meant 
to  give  you,  and  you  have  made  a  curse  of 
it." 

"  Vou  have  made  a  curse  of  it!  "  Dolores  an- 
swered, rising  and  glaring  at  her.      "You  have 
blighted  my  life  for  me.     A  good  man  and  true 
was  going  to  make  me  his   wife.     After   this, 
how  can  I  dare  to  palm  myself  off  upon  him?  "  ' 

She  swept  from  the  room.     Though   broken 
with  sorrow,  her  step  was  resolute.      Hcrminia 
followed  her  to  her  bed-room.     There  Dolly  sat 
long  on  the  edge  of  the    bed,   crying  silently, 
silently,  and  rocking  herself  up  and  down  like 
one   mad  with  agony.     At   last,   in  one   fierce 
burst,   she  relieved  her  burdened  soul  by  pour- 
ing out  to   her  mother  the  whole   tale  of  her 
meeting   with    Walter  Brydges.       Though    she 
hated  her,    she   must   tell  her.      Herminia  lis- 
tened with  deep  shame.     It  brought  the  color 
back  into  her  own  pale  cheek  to  think  any  man 
should  deem  he  was  performing  an  act  of  chival- 
rous self-devotion  in  marrying  Herminia  Barton's 
unlawful  daughter.     Alan  Merrick's  child !     The 

14 


ui 


li.'  i 


Ih  *: 


§ 


i 


^'i 


III: 


r  ■  i  ^, 


210 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


child  of  SO  many  hopes!  The  baby  that  was 
born  to  regenerate  humanity! 

At  last,  in  a  dogged  way,  Dolly  rose  once 
more.     She  put  on  her  hat  and  jacket. 

**  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  her  mother  asked, 
terrified. 

**  I  am  going  out,"  Dolores  answered,  "to  the 
post,  to  telegraph  to  him." 

She  worded  her  telegram  briefly  but  proudly: 

"My  mother  has  told  me  all.  I  understand  your 
feeling.  Our  arrangement  is  annulled.  Good-by. 
You  have  been  kind  to  me." 

An  hour  or  two  later,  a  return  telegram 
came :  — 

"  Our  engagement  remains  exactly  as  it  was. 
Nothing  is  changed.  I  hold  you  to  your  promise. 
All  tenderest  messages.     Letter  follows." 

That  answer  calmed  Dolly's  mind  a  little. 
She  began  to  think  after  all,  —  if  Walter  still 
wanted  her, — she  loved  him  very  much;  she 
could  hardly  dismiss  him. 

When  she  rose  to  go  to  bed,  Herminia,  very 
wistful,  held  out  her  white  face  to  be  kissed  as 
usual.  She  held  it  out  tentatively.  Worlds 
trembled  in  the  balance;  but  Dolly  drew  heiself 
back  with  a  look  of  offended  dignity.     **  Never ! " 


was 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


211 


she  answered  in  a  firm  voice.  "Never  again 
while  I  live.  You  are  not  fit  to  receive  a  pure 
girl's  kisses." 

And  two  women  lay  awake  all  that  ensuing 
night  sobbing  low  on  their  pillows  in  the  Mary- 
lebone  lodging-house. 


It 

li 


212 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


■U 


PI 


l>  ■  ■      i 


LJ 


\'J 


r  '"' 


M  r!!.;' 


)!■ 


XXII. 

It  was  half-past  nine  o'clock  next  morning 
when  the  man-servant  at  Sir  Anthony  Merrick's 
in  Harley  Street  brought  up  to  his  master's 
room  a  plain  hand-written  card  on  which  he 
read  the  name,   "Dolores  Barton." 

"Does  the  girl  want  to  blackmail  me?  "  Sir 
Anthony  thought  testily. 

The  great  doctor's  old  age  was  a  lonely  and 
a  sordid  one.  He  was  close  on  eighty  now,  but 
still  to  this  day  he  received  his  patients  from  ten 
to  one,  and  closed  his  shrivelled  hand  with  a 
clutch  on  their  guineas.  For  whom,  nobody 
knew.  Lady  Merrick  was  long  dead.  His 
daughters  were  well  married,  and  he  had  quar- 
relled with  their  husbands.  Of  his  two  younger 
sons,  one  had  gone  into  the  Fusiliers  and  been 
speared  at  Suakim;  the  other  had  broken  his 
neck  on  a  hunting-field  in  Warwickshire.  The 
old  man  lived  alone,  and  hugged  his  money- 
bags. They  were  the  one  thing  left  for  which 
he  seemed  to  retain  any  human  affection. 

So,  when  he  read  Dolly's  card,  being  by 
nature  suspicious,  he  felt  sure  the  child  had 
called  to  see  what  she  could  get  out  of  him. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


213 


Sir 


But  when  he  descended  to  the  consultino-- 
room  with  stern  set  face,  and  saw  a  beautiful 
girl  of  seventeen  awaiting  him,  —  a  tall  sunny- 
haired  girl,  with  Alan's  own  smile  and  Alan's 
own  eyes,  — he  grew  suddenly  aware  of  an  unex- 
pected interest.  The  sun  went  back  on  the 
dial  of  his  life  for  thirty  years  or  thereabouts, 
and  Alan  himself  seemed  to  stand  before  him. 
Alan,  as  he  used  to  burst  in  for  his  holidays 
from  Winchester!  After  all,  this  pink  rosebud 
was  his  eldest  son's  only  daughter. 

Chestnut  hair,  pearly  teeth,  she  was  Alan  all 
over. 

Sir  Anthony  bowed  his  most  respectful  bow, 
with  old-fashioned  courtesy. 

"And  what  can  I  do  for  you,  young  lady.?" 
he'asked  in  his  best  professional  manner. 

"Grandfather,"  the  girl  broke  out,  blushing 
red  to  the  ears,  but  saying  it  out  none  the  less; 
"Grandfather,  I  'm  your  granddaughter,  Dolores 
Barton. " 

The  old  man  bowed  once  more,  a  most  defer- 
ential bow.  Strange  to  say,  when  he  saw  her, 
this  claim  of  blood   pleased  him. 

"So  I  see,  my  child,"  he  answered.  "And 
what  do  you  want  with  me.?" 

"I  only  knew  it  last  night,"  Dolly  went  on, 
casting  down  those  blue  eyes  in  her  shamefaced 
embarrassment.  "  And  this  morning  .  .  .  I 've 
come  to  implore  your  protection." 


214 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


r  I 


:  ■! . 


c%: 


u  '4 


,<(  (i,i  -,  til ' n 


'it 


!  U 


"That  *s  prompt,"  the  old  man  replied,  with  a 
curious  smile,  half  suspicious,  half  satisfied. 
"From  whom,  my  little  one?"  And  his  hand 
caressed  her  shoulder. 

"From  my  mother,"  Dolly  answered,  blushing 
still  deeper  crimson.  "  From  the  mother  who 
put  this  injustice  upon  me.  From  the  mother 
who,  by  her  own  confession,  might  have  given  mc 
an  honorable  birthright,  like  any  one  else's,  and 
who  cruelly  refused  to." 

The  old  man  eyed  her  with  a  searching  glance. 

"Then  she  hasn't  brought  you  up  in  her 
own  wild  ideas  .•*  "  he  said.  "  She  has  n't  dinged 
them  into  you! " 

"She  has  tried  to,"  Dolly  answered.  "But  I 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  them.  I  hate  her 
ideas,  and  her  friends,  and  her  faction." 

Sir  Anthony  drew  her  forward  and  gave  her  a 
sudden  kiss.     Her  spirit  pleased  him. 

"That's  well,  my  child,"  he  answered. 
"That's  well  —  for  a  beginning." 

Then  Dolly,  emboldened  by  his  kindness, —  for 
in  a  moment,  somehow,  she  had  taken  her  grand- 
father's heart  by  assault, —  began  to  tell  him  how 
it  had  all  corne  about ;  how  she  had  received  an 
offer  from  a  most  excellent  young  man  at  Combe 
Mary  in  Dorsetshire,  — very  well  connected,  the 
squire  of  his  parish;  how  she  had  accepted  him 
with  joy;  how  she  loved  him  dearly;  how  this 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


215 


shadow  intervened ;  how  thereupon,  for  the  first 
time,  she  had  asked  for  and  learned  the  horrid 
truth  about  her  parentage;  how  she  was  stunned 
and  appalled  by  it ;  how  she  could  never  again 
live  under  one  roof  with  such  a  woman;   and 
how  she  came  to  him  for  advice,  for  encourage- 
ment, for  assistance.     She  flung  herself  on  his 
mercy.     Every  word  she  spoke   impressed   Sir 
Anthony.     This  was  no  mere  acting;   the  girl 
really  meant  it.    Brought  up  in  those  hateful  sur- 
roundings, innate  purity  of  mind  had  preserved 
her  innocent  heart  from  the  contagion  of  example. 
She  spoke  like  a  sensible,  modest,  healthy  English 
maiden.     She  was  indeed  a  granddaughter  any 
man  might  be   proud  of.      'T  was  clear  as  the 
sun  in  the  London  sky  to  Sir  Anthony  that  she 
recoiled  with  horror  fromi  her  mother's  position. 
He    sympathized    with    her   and    pitied      her. 
Dolores,    all    blushes,    lifted    her    eyelids    and 
looked  at  him.     Her  grandfather  drew  her  tow- 
ards him  with  a  smile  of  real  tenderness,  and, 
unbending  as  none  had  seen  him  unbend  before 
since  Alan's  death,  told  her  all  the  sad  history 
as   he   himself  envisaged   it.     Dolores    listened 
and  shuddered.     The  old  man  was  vanquished. 
He  would  have  taken  her  once  to  himself,    he 
said,   if  Herminia  had  permitted  it;    he  would 
take  her  to  himself  now,  if  Dolores  would  come 
to  him. 


(■> 


II .  ■. 


2l6 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


■j:r' 


If' 

1 

i 

r, 

i 

'! 

L 

>v. 

As  for  Dolly,  she  lay  sobbing  and  crying  ir 
Sir  Anthony's  arms,  as  though  she  had  always 
known  him.  After  all,  he  was  her  grandfather. 
Nearer  to  her  in  heart  and  soul  than  her  mother. 
And  the  butler  could  hardly  conceal  his  surprise 
and  amazement  when  three  minutes  later  Sir 
Anthony  rang  the  bell,  and  being  discovered 
alone  with  a  strange  young  lady  in  tears,  made 
the  unprecedented  announcement  that  he  would 
see  no  patients  at  all  that  morning,  and  was  at 
home  to  nobody. 

But  before  Dolly  left  her  new-found  relation's 
house,  it  was  all  arranged  between  them.  She 
was  to  come  there  at  once  as  his  adopted  daugh- 
ter; was  to  take  and  use  the  name  of  Merrick; 
was  to  see  nothing  more  of  that  wicked  woman, 
her  mother;  and  was  to  be  married  in  due  time 
from  Sir  Anthony's  house,  and  under  Sir 
Anthony's  auspices,  to  Walter  Brydges. 

She  wrote  to  Walter  then  and  there,  from 
her  grandfather's  consulting-room.  Numb  with 
shame  as  she  was,  she  nerved  her  hand  to  write 
to  him.  In  what  most  delicate  language  she 
could  find,  she  let  him  plainly  know  who  Sir 
Anthony  was,  and  all  else  that  had  happened. 
But  she  added  at  the  end  one  significant  clause : 
"While  my  mother  lives,  dear  Walter,  I  feel  I 
can  never  marry  you." 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


217 


XXIII. 


When  she  returned  from  Sir  Anthony's  to  her 
mother's  lodgings,  she  found  Hcrminia,  very 
pale,  in  the  sitting-room,  waiting  for  her.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  a  cherished  autotype  of  a 
Pinturicchio  at  Perugia,  —  Alan's  favorite  pict- 
ure. Out  of  her  penury  she  had  bought  it.  It 
represented  the  Madonna  bending  in  woT-ship 
over  her  divine  child,  and  bore  the  inscription: 
"Quern  genuit  adoravit."  Herminia  loved  that 
group.  To  her  it  was  no  mere  emblem  of  a 
dying  creed,  but  a  type  of  the  eternal  religion 
of  maternity.  The  Mother  adoring  the  Child ! 
'Twas  herself  and  Dolly. 

"Well?"  Herminia  said  interrogatively,  as 
her  daughter  entered,  for  she  half  feared  the 
worst. 

"Well,"  Dolores  answered  in  a  defiant  tone, 
blurting  it  out  in  sudden  jerks,  the  rebellion' of 
a  lifetime  finding  vent  at  last.  "  I  've  been  to 
my  grandfather,  my  father's  father;  and  I  've 
told  him  everything;  and  it 's  all  arranged:  and 
I  'm  to  take  his  name;  and  I  'm  to  go  and  live 
with  him." 


2l8 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


l^ 


■'4 


(( 


Dolly !  "  the  mother  cried,  and  fell  forward 
on  the  table  with  her  face  in  her  hands. 
"  My  child,  my  child,  are  you  going  to  leave 
me?" 

"  It 's  quite  time,"  Dolly  answered,  in  a  sullen, 
stolid  voice.  "I  can't  stop  here,  of  course,  now 
I  'm  almost  grown  up  and  engaged  to  be  married, 
associating  any  longer  with  such  a  woman  as 
you  have  been.  No  right-minded  girl  who 
respected  herself  could  do  it." 

Herminia  rose  and  faced  her.  Her  white  lips; 
grew  livid.  She  had  counted  on  every  element 
of  her  martyrdom,  —  save  one;  and  this,  the 
blackest  and  fiercest  of  all,  had  never  even  oc- 
curred to  her.  "Dolly,"  she  cried,  "oh,  my 
daughter,  you  don't  know  what  you  do !  You 
don't  know  how  I've  loved  you!  I've  given 
up  my  life  for  you.  I  thought  when  you  came 
to  woman's  estate,  and  learned  what  was  right 
and  what  wrong,  you  would  indeed  rise  up  and 
call  me  blessed.  And  now,  —  oh,  Dolly,  this 
last  blow  is  too  terrible.  It  will  kill  me,  my 
darling.     I  can't  go  on  out-living  it." 

"  You  will, "  Dolly  answered.  "  You  *re  strong 
enough  and  wiry  enough  to  outlive  anything. 
.  .  .  But  I  wrote  to  Walter  from  Sir  Anthony's 
this  morning,  and  told  him  I  would  wait  for 
him  if  I  waited  forever.  For,  of  course,  while 
jfou  live,  I  could  n't  think  of  marrying  him.     I 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


219 


could  n't  think  of  burdening  an  honest  man  with 
such  a  mother-in-law  as  you  are!  " 

Herminia  could  only  utter  the  one  word, 
"Dolly!"  It  was  a  heart-broken  cry,  the  last 
despairing  cry  of  a  wounded  and  stricken 
creature. 


M 


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220 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


h' 


I 


XXIV. 

That  night,  Herminia  Barton  went  up  sadly 
to  her  own  bed- room.  It  was  the  very  last 
night  that  Dolores  was  to  sleep  under  the  same 
roof  with  her  mother.  On  the  morrow,  she 
meant  to  remove  to  Sir  Anthony  Merrick's. 

As  soon  as  Herminia  had  closed  the  door, 
she  sat  down  to  her  writing-table  and  began 
to  write.  Her  pen  moved  of  itself.  And  this 
was  her  letter:  — 

"  My  Darling  Daughter,  —  By  the  time  you  read 
these  words,  I  shall  be  no  longer  in  the  way,  to  inter 
fere  with  your  perfect  freedom  of  action.  I  had  but 
one  task  left  in  life  —  to  make  you  happy.  Now  I  find 
I  only  stand  in  the  way  of  that  object,  no  reason  re- 
mains why  I  should  endure  any  longer  the  misfortune 
of  living. 

"  My  child,  my  child,  you  must  see,  when  you  come 
to  think  it  over  at  leisure,  that  all  I  ever  did  was  done, 
up  to  my  lights,  to  serve  and  bless  you.  I  thought,  by 
giving  you  the  father  and  the  birth  I  did,  I  was  giving 
you  the  best  any  mother  on  earth  had  ever  yet  given 
her  dearest  daughter.  I  believe  it  still ;  but  I  see  I 
should  never  succeed  in  making  you  feel  it.     Accept 


THE  WOMAxN  Wfto   DID. 


22  # 


this  reparation.  For  all  the  wrong  I  may  have  dom , 
all  the  mistakes  I  may  have  made,  I  sincerely  and  ear- 
nestly implore  your  forgiveness.  I  could  not  have  hnd 
it  whie  I  lived ;  I  beseech  and  pray  you  to  grant  me 
dead  what  you  would  never  have  been  able  to  grant  me 
living. 

"  My  darling,  I  thought  you  would  grow  up  to  feel  as 
I  did ;  I  thought  you  would  thank  me  for  leading  you 
to  see  such  things  as  the  blind  world  is  incapable  of 
seeing.  There  I  made  a  mistake;  and  sorely  am  I 
punished  for  it.  Don't  visit  it  upon  my  head  in  your 
recollections  when  I  can  no  longer  defend  myself. 

"  I  set  out  in  life  with  the  earnest  determination  to 
be  :>  martyr  to  the  cause  of  truth  and  righteousness,  as 
I  myself  understood  them.     But  I  did  n't  foresee  this 
last  pang  of  martyrdom.     No  soul  can  tell  beforehand 
to  what  particular  cross  the  blind  chances  of  the  uni- 
verse will  finally  nail  it.     But  I  am  ready  to  be  offered, 
and  the  time  of  my  departure  is  close  at  hand.    I  have 
fought  a  good  fight ;  I  have  finished  my  course  ;  I  have 
kept  the  faith  I  started  in  life  with.     Nothing  now  re- 
mains for  me  but  the  crown  of  martyrdom.     My  dar- 
ling, it  is  indeed  a  very  bitter  cup  to  me  that  you  should 
wish  me  dead  ;  but  't  is  a  small  thing  to  die,  above  all 
for  the  sake  of  those  we  love.     I  die  for  you  gladly, 
knowing  that  by  doing  so  I  can  easily  relieve  my  own 
dear  litde  girl  of  one  trouble   in  life,  and   make   her 
course  lie  henceforth    throu^^h    smoother  wai-^-s.     Be 
happy !    be    happy !      Good-by,    my    Dolly  !      Your 
mother's  love  go  forever  through  life  with  you  I 


222 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


i;;li  . 


"  Burn  this  blurred  note  the  moment  you  have  read 

it.     I  inclose  a  more  formal  one,  giving  reasons  for  my 

act  on  other  grounds,  to  be  put  in,  if  need  be,  at  the 

coroner's    inquest.      Good-night,  my    heart's    darling. 

Your  truly  devoted  and  affectionate 

Mother. 

"  Oh,  Dolly,  my  Dolly,  you  never  will  know  with 
wiiat  love  I  loved  you." 

When  she  had  finished  that  note,  and  folded 
it  reverently  with  kisses  and  tears,  she  wrote 
the  second  one  in  a  firm  hand  for  the  formal 
evidence.  Then  she  put  on  a  fresh  white  dress, 
ds  pure  as  her  own  soul,  like  the  one  she  had 
worn  on  the  night  of  her  self-made  bridal  with 
Alan  Merrick.  In  her  bosom  she  fastened  two 
innocent  white  roses  from  Walter  Brydges's 
bouquet,  arranging  them  with  stucMs  care  very 
daintily  before  her  mirror.  She  was  always  a 
woman.  "Perhaps,"  she  thought  to  herself, 
"for  her  lover's  sake,  my  Dolly  will  kiss  them. 
When  she  finds  them  lying  on  her  dead  mother's 
breast,  my  Dolly  may  kiss  them."  Then  she 
cried  a  few  minutes  very  softly  to  herse'f ;  for 
no  one  can  die  without  some  little  regret,  some 
consciousness  of  the  unique  solemnity  of  the 
occasion. 

At  last  she  rose  and  moved  over  to  her  desk. 
Out  of  it  she  took  a  small  glass-stoppered  phial, 


THE  WOMAN   WHO  DID. 


223 


that  a  scientific  friend  had  given  her  long  ago 
for  use  in  case  of  extreme  emergency.  It  con- 
tained prussic  acid.  She  poured  the  contents 
into  a  glass  and  drank  it  off.  Then  she  lay 
upon  her  bed  and  waited  for  the  only  friend  she 
had  left  in  the  world,  with  hands  folded  on  her 
breast,  like  some  saint  of  the  middle  ages. 

Not  for  nothing  does  blind  fate  vouchsafe  such 
martyrs  to  humanity.  From  their  graves  shall 
spring  glorious  the  church  of  the  future. 

When  Dolores  came  in  next  morning  to  say 
good-by,  she  found  her  mother's  body  cold  and 
stiff  upon  the  bed,  in  a  pure  white  dress,  with 
two  crushed  white  roses  just  peeping  from  her 
bodice. 

Herminia  Barton's  stainless  soul  had  ceased 
to  exist  forever. 


THE  END. 


ft    s 


t! 


I  '■  ; 


'■'.  ;: 


r 

I 


'It  'i 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


DISCORDS. 

^  )9oIume  of  ^tortc£(. 
By  GEORGE  EGERTON,  author  of  "Keynotes." 

AMERICAN   COPYRIGHT   EDITION. 
i6mo.    Cloth.    Price,  $i.oo. 


«^^'?^!^^T°"''""""'°'"""'"''"^''  "Discords,"  a  collection  of  short  stories, 
IS  more  talked  about,  just  now,  than  any  other  fiction  of  ihe  day.    The  collection  is 

^^rang]e  over.     Harold  Predenc  cables  from  I.ondon  to  the  "  New  York  Times  "  that 
the  book  IS  making  a  profound  impression  there.     It  is  published  on  both  sides,  ihe 

rPorlT^    ?."'•'  ^""'-"'■S;'  °"'  '"  l^"^'""-     (^'-'"'•Ke  Egerton,  like  George  Kl.ot  and 
Oeorge  Sand,  is  a  woman's  „^«,  Je  plume.     The  extraordinary  frankness  with  which 

Lilian  ^IVhUin  "  '"'^   '"   "'"'^  ''°"'^  "°'   unnaturally  arrests  atlentiou.  - 

The  English  woman  known  as  yet  only  by  the  name  of  George  Egerton  who 
made  something  of  a  stir  in  the  world  by  a  volume  of  strong  stories  called  ''  Keymrs  " 
has  brouglu  out  a  new  book  under  the  rather  uncomfortable  title  of  "  dIsco  ds  •» 
These  stories  show  us  pessimism  run  wild  ;  the  gloomy  things  thatMl  i  ^'"'•'''^'• 
human  being  are  so  dwelt  upon  as  to  leave  the  'mpre/sion  fha  n  the  au  r  '"  * 
world  tl-.ere  ,s  no  light.    The  relations  of  the  se.xes  are  treated  o   in  h  ,.  Tu 

devebps  into  actual  horror  as  the  pages  pass.  But  n  alt  thiT  ,h  ""'' "  '5 
grandeur  of  style,  a  keen  analysis  of  motive  and  a  deln  r        u'  "."  '"''^''* 

George  Egerton  as  one  of  the  greatest  women  wHtPr.rT"/^  ""'^"^  '^^'  "'"'"P 
beencalledavolumeof  stories;  iiisa  Js^mer  for  ?  K  .'  ^"^-  •  ^I^'^^"^^'^"  ^^^ 
episodes  in  lives  of  men  and  womel   w^o  .  ot  1  h'  '""^""'  ""^'^  "''"•'"« 

Traveller.  '  ^'"''  ""  begmning  nor  ending.  -  Boston 

Ege  ™:  i::sL:fT^^^^^tTT  'r :'-  '^^^  ^-^^  ^--  -^  ^-^^^ 

selected  according  to  musicZ  ndnles  n  «'  "  ""''  "^  '^''  ^"''^«^'''  »-'''<^  «^e 
logical  Momenta'  Three  p/^d'r'',  :  '  1"  '"^  ^tory  .n  the  book  is  "A  Psycho, 
story  of  the  child,  of  the  giH   n  d  of  ,.i  '"f  '  ""^"  ''^•■'"  'sentiment.     The 

mysteries  of  the  life  of  each  are  f^mi  ^^7'"  "  't'"  "."'I  ^'^''^  ^^  «"^  "^  -»'"-  '^e 
has  so  subtly  analyzed  he    trife    h"  Ss  Z".  . ."  "7-'"'''  "^  ''^  ^■"'•^^ 

must  be  :  yet  as  they  are  reil   tLvT  ''^'"'V  ^'^''['e"  ""e  to  think  that  such  things 

time.  The  author  betaysrmk.b  ne,'"f  '"  '  1' •^"'  '^  ^"'"^^"''y  ^^  '"  '"- 
.he  human  heart  with  rpoweT  from  wC?  ''''•''"''  ^>^'■--P'i'>".  and  dissects 
instinctively  shrink  even  wl?iL  fdnn.^r  v  ""['''''"''''"  "^^  '''^"^'"^^  "^''"^'^  -^y 
treatment  exhibited.-"..^'  ""^'^  "''''  '^^  "'''"»^'«"  «»d  hypnotized  by  th 


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THE  GREAT  GOD   PAN  AND  THE 
INMOST  LIGHT. 

BY   ARTHUR    MACHEN. 

KEYNOTES  SERIES. 


i6mo.    Cloth.     Price,  $i.oo. 


A  couple  of  tales  by  Arthur  Maclien,  presumably  an  Englishman,  publishea 
aesthetically  in  this  country  by  Roberts  Brotliers.  They  are  horror  stories,  the 
horror  being  of  the  vague  psychologic  kind  and  dependent,  in  each  case,  upon  a  man 
of  science  who  tries  to  effect  a  change  in  individual  personality  by  an  operation  upon 
the  brain  cells.  The  implied  lesson  is  that  it  is  dangerous  and  unwise  to  seek  t 
probe  the  mystery  separating  mind  and  matter.  T'lese  sketciies  are  extremely  stroi 
and  we  guarantee  the  "  shivers  "  to  anyone  who  reads  them.  —  Hartford  Courant. 

For  two  stories  of  the  most  marvelous  and  improbable  character,  yet  told  with 
wonderful  realism  and  naturalness,  the  palm  for  this  time  will  have  to  be  awarded  to 
Arthur  Machen,  for  "  The  Great  God  Pan  and  the  Inmost  Light,"  two  stories  just 
published  in  one  book  They  are  fitting  companions  to  the  famous  stories  by  Edgar 
Allan  Poe  both  in  matter  and  style.  "The  Great  God  Pan"  is  founded  upon  an 
experiment  made  upon  a  girl  by  which  she  was  enabled  for  a  moment  to  see  the  god 
Pan,  but  with  most  disastrous  results,  the  most  wonderful  of  which  is  revealed  at  the 
end  of  the  story,  and  which  solution  the  reader  will  eagerly  seek  to  reach.  From  the 
first  mystery  or  tragedy  follow  in  rapid  succession.  "The  Inmost  Light"  is  equally 
as  remarkable  for  its  imaginative  power  and  perfect  air  of  probability.  Anything  in 
the  legitimate  line  of  psychology  utterly  pales  before  these  stories  of  such  plausibility. 
Boston  Home  Journal. 

Precisely  who  the  great  god  Pan  of  Mr.  Machen's  first  tale  is,  we  did  10'  'luite 
discover  when  we  read  it,  or,  discovering,  we  have  forgotten  ;  but  our  imy.!  .mi  is 
that  under  the  idea  of  that  primitive  great  deity  he  impersonated,  or  n^eari!  .(  im- 
personate, the  evil  influences  that  attach  to  woman,  the  fatality  of  feminine  br  .iiy, 
which,  like  the  countenance  of  the  great  god  Pan,  is  deadly  to  all  who  behold  it. 
His  heroine  is  a  beautiful  woman,  who  ruins  the  souls  and  bodies  of  those  over  whom 
she  casts  her  spells,  being  as  good  as  a  Suicide  Club,  if  we  may  say  so,  to  those  who 
love  her;  and  to  whom  she  is  Death.  Something  like  this,  if  not  this  exactly,  is,  we 
take  it,  the  interpretation  of  Mr.  Machen's  uncanny  parable,  which  is  too  obscure 
to  justify  itself  as  an  imaginative  creation  and  too  morbid  to  be  the  production  of  a 
healthy  mind.  The  kind  of  writing  which  it  illustrates  is  a  bad  one,  and  this  is  one 
of  the  worst  of  the  kind.  It  is  not  terrible,  but  horrible.  —  .ff.  H,  S.  in  Mail  and 
Express. 

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THE 


I  publishea 
stories,  the 
ipon  a  man 
ation  upon 
to  seek  t 
lely  stro! 
".ourant. 
:  told  with 
warded  to 
tories  just 
by  Edgar 
I  upon  an 
;e  the  god 
lied  at  the 
From  the 
is  equally 
lything  in 
lusibility. 

''a'  -juite 
"trs;.  ;).>n  is 
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J  be.iUty, 
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er  whom 
lose  who 
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obscure 
tioii  of  a 
lis  is  one 
Tail  and 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  AGE. 

a  NofaeL 

BY   FI2ANCIS    ADAMS 

(KEYNOTES  SERIES.) 

With   titlepage    by    Aubrey   Beardsley.      i6mo.      Cloth. 

Price,  i^i.oo. 

• 

This  story  by  Francis  Adams  was  originally  published  under  the  title  of 
••Leicester,  an  Autobiography,"  in  1884,  when  the  author  was  only  twenty-two  years 
of  age.  That  would  make  him  thirty-two  years  old  now,  if  he  were  still  living.  He 
was  but  eighteen  years  old  when  it  was  first  drafted  by  him.  Sometime  after  publica- 
tion, he  revised  the  work,  and  in  its  present  form  it  is  now  published  again,  practi- 
cally  a  posthumous  production.  We  can  with  truthfulness  characterize  it  as  a  tale  of 
fresh  originality,  deep  spiritual  meaning,  and  exceptional  power.  It  fairly  buds, 
blossoms,  and  fruits  with  suggestions  that  search  the  human  spirit  through.  No 
similar  production  has  come  from  the  hand  of  any  author  in  our  time.  That  Francis 
Adams  would  have  carved  out  a  remarkable  career  for  himself  had  he  continued  to 
live,  this  little  volume,  all  compact  with  significant  suggestion,  attests  on  many  a 
page.  It  exalts,  inspires,  comforts,  and  strengthens  all  together.  It  instructs  by 
suggestion,  spiritualizes  the  thought  by  its  elevating  and  purifying  narrative,  and 
feeds  the  hunge.iug  spirit  with  food  it  is  only  too  ready  to  accept  and  assimilate. 
Those  who  read  its  pages  with  an  eager  curiosity  the  first  time  will  be  pretty  sure 
to  return  to  them  for  a  second  slower  and  more  meditative  perusal.  The  book  is 
assuredly  the  promise  and  potency  of  great  things  unattained  in  the  too  brief  life- 
time of  its  gifted  author.  We  heartily  commend  it  as  a  book  not  only  of  remarkable 
power,  but  as  the  product  of  a  human  spirit  whose  merely  intellectual  gifts  were  but 
a  fractional  part  of  his  inclusive  spiritual  endowments.  —  Boston  Courier. 

Put  it  is  a  remarkable  work— as  a  pathologicnl  study  almost  unsurpassed.  It 
produces  the  impression  of  a  photograph  from  life,  so  vividly  realistic  is  the  treatment. 
To  this  result  the  author's  style,  with  its  fidelity  of  microscopic  detail,  doubtless 
contributes.  —  Evenine;-  Traveller. 

This  story  by  Francis  Adams  is  one  to  read  slowly,  and  then  to  rend  a  second 
time.  It  is  powerfully  written,  full  of  strong  suggestion,  unlike,  in  fact,  anything  we 
have  recently  read.  What  he  would  have  done  in  the  way  of  literary  creation,  had  he 
lived,  is,  of  course,  only  a  mntter  of  conjecture  What  he  did  we  have  before  us  in 
this  remarkable  book,  —  Boston  Advertiser. 


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16mo,  cloth.   Each  volume  with  a  Title-page  and  Cover  Design, 

By    AUBREY    BEARDSLEY. 

Price,  $1.00. 


I. 

II. 
III. 

IV. 
V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 
XIII. 
XIV. 

XV. 


KEYNOTES.     I5y  George  E(}KRTon. 

THE  DANCING  FAUN.     I5y  Florence  Farr. 

POOR  FOLK.  l!y  Fedor  Dostoievsky.  Translated  from 
the  Russian  by  Lena  Mil.man.  With  an  Introduction 
by  George  Moore. 

A  CHILD  OF  THE  AGE.     15y  Francis  Adams. 

THE  GREAT  GOD  PAN  AND  THE  INMOST  LIGHT.    By 

Arthur  Mac  hen. 

DISCORDS.     By  George  Egerton. 

PRINCE  ZALESKI.    By  M.  P.  Shiel. 

THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID.    By  Grant  Allen. 

WOMEN'S  TRAGEDIES.     By  II.  D.  Lowry. 

[/;/  preparation. 

THE    BOHEMIAN    GIRL    AND    OTHER    STORIES.      By 

Henry  IIarland.  {/n  pripuration. 

AT  THE    FIRST   CORNER  AND  OTHER    STORIES.    By 

II.  B.  Marriott  Wmson.  [///  preparation. 

A  VOLUME  OF   STORIES.     By  Ella  D'Arcy. 

[/;/  preparation. 

AT  THE  RELTON  ARMS.     By  Evelyn  Sharp. 

[/«  preparation, 

THE  GIRL  FROM  THE  FARM.    By  Gertrude  Dix. 

[/«  preparation. 

THE  MIRROR  '^F  MUSIC.    By  Stanley  V.  Makowfr. 

[/«  preparation. 


Sold  by  all  Booksdlcrs.     Mailed.,  postpaid.,  on  receipt  of 
price  J  by  the  Publishers., 

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THE   DANCING   FAUN. 

Bv  FLORENCE  FARR. 

IVttb  Title-page  and  Caver  Design  by  y4iibrey  Beahi  .lev. 
16mo.    Cloth.    Price,  $1.00. 


I',y 


We  welcome  the  light  and  merry  pen  of  Miss  Farr  as  one  of  the  deftest  that 
has  been  wielded  in  the  style  of  to-day.  She  has  written  the  cleverest  and  the 
most  cynical  sensation  story  of  the  season.  —  Liverfool  Daily  Post. 

Slight  as  it  is,  the  story  is,  in  its  way,  strong.  —Literary  World. 

Full  of  bright  paradox,  and  paradox  which  is  no  mere  topsy-turvy  play  upon 
words,  but  the  product  of  serious  thinking  upon  life.  One  of  the  cleverest  of 
recent  novels.  — Star. 

It  is  full  of  epigrammc.tic  effects,  and  it  has  a  certain  thread  of  pathos  calcu- 
lated to  win  our  spmpathy.  — Queen. 

The  story  is  subtle  and  psychological  after  the  fashion  of  modern  psjchology  ; 
it  is  undeniably  clever  and  smartly  written.  —  Gentlewoman. 

No  one  can  deny  its  freshness  and  wit.  Indted  there  are  things  in  it  here  and 
there  which  John  Oliver  Hobbes  herself  might  have  signed  v  thout  loss  of  repu- 
tation. —  ll'of/ian. 

There  is  a  lurid  power  in  the  very  unreality  of  the  story.  One  does  not  quite 
understand  how  Lady  Geraldine  worked  herself  up  to  shooting  lier  lover;  but 
when  she  has  done  it,  the  description  of  what  passes  through  her  mind  is 
magnificent. — At/tenceu/n. 

Written  by  an  obviously  clever  woman  —  Black  and  White. 

Miss  Farr  has  talent.  "The  Dancing  Faun  "  contains  writing  that  is  distinc- 
tively good.  Doubtless  it  is  only  a  prelude  to  something  much  stronger.— 
A  cade  my. 

As  a  work  of  art,  the  book  has  the  merit  of  brevity  and  smart  writing,  while 
the  denouement  is  skilfully  prepared,  and  comes  as  a  surprise  If  the  book  had 
been  intended  as  a  satire  on  the  "  new  woman  "  sort  of  literature,  it  would  have 
been  most  brilliant;  but  assuming  it  to  be  written  in  earnest,  we  can  heartily 
praise  the  tbrm  of  its  construction  without  agreeing  with  the  sentiments  expressed. 
St.  yantes's  Gazette. 

Shows  considerable  power  and  aptitude.  —  Saturday  Review. 

Miss  Farr  is  a  clever  writer  whose  apprenticeship  at  playwriting  can  easily  be 
detected  in  the  epigrammatic  conversations  with  which  this  book  is  filled,  and 
whose  characters  expound  a  philosophy  of  life  which  strongly  recalls  Oscar 
Wilde's  later  interpretations.  .  .  .  The  theme  of  the  tale  is  heredity  developed 
in  a  most  unp'easant  manner.  The  leading  idea  that  daughters  inherit  t.ic  father's 
qualities,  good  or  evil,  while  sons  resemble  their  mother,  is  well  sustained  — 
Home  yournal. 


Sold  everywhere.    Postpaid  bj>  publishers. 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,   Boston. 


1 , 1 


fii  M 


I 


Alcssrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


A  STRANGE  CAREER. 


LIFE   AND   ADVENTURES    OF 
JOHN   GLADWYN  JEBB, 

BY    HIS    WIDOW. 

With  an  Introduction  by  H.  Rider  Haggard,  and  a  por- 
trait  of  Mr.  Jebb.     i2mo,  cloth.     Price,  $1.25. 


A  remarkable  romance  of  modern  life.  —  Daily  Chronicle. 

Exciting  to  a  degree.  —  Black  and  White, 

Full  of  breathless  interest.  —  Times. 

Reads  like  fiction.  — Daily  Graphic. 

Pages  which  will  hold  their  readers  fast  to  the  very  end.  —  Graphic. 

A  better  told  and  more  marvellous  narrative  of  a  real  life  was  never  put 
into  the  covers  of  a  small  octavo  volume.  —  To-Day. 

As  fascinating  as  any  romance.  .  .  .  The  book  is  of  the  most  entranc- 
ing interest.  —  St.  James's  Budget. 

Those  who  love  stories  of  adventure  will  find  a  volume  to  their  taste  in 
the  "  Life  and  Adventures  of  John  Gladwyn  Jebb,"  just  published,  and  to 
which  an  introduction  is  furnished  by  Rider  Haggard,  The  latter  says 
thi.t  rarely,  if  ever,  in  this  nineteenth  century,  has  a  man  lived  so  strange 
2v^.  varied  an  existence  as  did  Mr.  Jebb.  From  the  time  that  he  came  fo 
manhood  he  was  a  wanderer ;  and  how  he  survived  the  many  perils  of  his 
daily  life  is  certainly  a  mystery.  .  .  .  The  strange  and  remarkable  adven- 
tures of  which  we  have  an  account  in  this  volume  were  in  Guatemala,  Brazil, 
in  our  own  far  West  with  the  Indians  on  the  plains,  in  mining  camps  in 
Colorado  and  California,  in  Texas,  in  Cuba  and  Mexico,  where  occurred 
the  search  for  Montezuma's,  or  rather  Guatemoc's  treasure,  to  which  Mr. 
Haggard  believes  that  Mr.  Jebb  held  the  key,  but  which  through  his  death 
is  now  forever  lost.  The  story  is  one  of  thrilling  interest  from  beginning 
to  end,  the  story  of  a  born  adventurer,  unselfish,  sanguine,  romantic,  of  a 
man  too  mystical  and  poetic  in  his  nature  for  this  prosaic  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, but  who,  as  a  crusader  or  a  knight  errant,  would  have  won  distinguished 
success.  The  volume  is  a  notable  addition  to  the  literature  of  adventure. 
—  Boston  Advertiser. 


Sold  by  all  Booksellers.    Mailed^  postpaid,  by  the  pub- 
lishers^ 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Boston. 


POOR    FOLK. 

0  Jl^otocL 

Translated  from  the  Russian  of  Fkdor  Dostoievsky,  by 
Lena  Milman,  with  decorative  titlepage  and  a  criti- 
cal introduction  by  George  Moore.  American 
Copyright  edition. 

16mo.    Cloth.    $1.00. 


["ON. 


A  capable  critic  writes  :  "  One  of  the  most  beautiful,  touching  stories  I  have 
read.  The  cliaracter  of  the  o!d  cierii  is  a  masterpiece,  a  kind  of  Russian  Cliarles 
Lamb.  He  reminds  me,  too,  of  Anatole  France's  '  Sylvestre  Honnard,'  but  it 
ia  a  mr^re  poignant,  moving  figure.  How  wonderfully,  too,  the  sad  little  strokes 
of  hi;  lor  are  blended  into  the  pathos  in  his  characterization,  and  how  fascinating 
all  tlie  naive  self-revelations  of  his  poverty  become,  —  all  his  many  ups  and  downs 
and  hopes  and  tears.  His  unsuccessful  visit  to  tlie  money-lender,  his  despair  at  tlie 
office,  unexpectedly  ending  in  a  sudden  burst  of  good  fortune,  the  final  despair- 
ing cry  of  his  love  for  Varvara,  —  these  hold  one  breathless  One  can  hardly 
read  them  without  tears.  •  .  .  Hut  there  is  no  need  to  say  all  that  could  be  said 
about  the  book.     It  is  enough  to  say  that  it  is  over  powerful  and  beautiful." 

We  are  glad  to  welcome  a  good  translation  of  the  Russian  Dostoievsky's 
story  "  Poor  Folk,"  Englished  by  Lena  Milman.  It  is  a  tale  of  unrequited  love, 
conducted  in  the  form  of  letters  written  between  a  poor  clerk  and  his  girl  cousin 
whom  he  devotedly  loves,  and  who  finally  leaves  him  to  marry  a  man  not  admir- 
able in  character  who,  the  reader  feels,  will  not  make  her  happy.  The  [wthos  of 
the  book  centres  in  the  clerk,  Makar's,  unselfish  affection  and  his  heart-break  at 
being  left  lonesome  by  his  charming  kinswoman  whose  epistles  have  been  his  one 
solace.  In  the  conductment  of  the  story,  realistic  sketches  of  middle  class  Rus- 
sian life  are  given,  heightening  the  effect  of  the  denoument.  George  Moore  writes 
a  sparkling  introduction  to  the  book.  — Hartford  Courant. 

Dostoievsky  is  a  great  aitist.  "Poor  Folk"  is  a  great  novel. — Boston 
Advertiser. 

It  is  a  most  beautiful  and  touching  story,  and  will  linger  in  the  mind  long 
after  the  book  is  closed.  The  pathos  is  blended  with  touching  bits  of  humor, 
that  are  even  pathetic  in  themselves.  —  Boston  Tivtes. 

Notwithstanding  that  "Poor  Folk"  is  told  in  that  most  exasperating  and 
entirely  unreal  style  —  by  letters—  it  is  complete  in  sequence,  and  the  interest 
does  not  flag  as  the  various  phases  in  the  sordid  life  of  the  two  characters  are 
developed.  The  theme  is  intensely  pathetic  and  truly  human,  while  its  treat- 
ment is  exceedingly  artistic.  The  translator,  Len.i  Milman,  seems  to  have  well 
preserved  the  spirit  of  the  original  —  Cambridge  Tribune. 


ROBERTS   BROTHERS,   Publishers, 

BOSTON,  MASS 


^    :'•• 


II 


f 


KEYNOTES. 

0  JBolume  of  ^toricfif. 

By  George  Egerton.     With  titlepage  by  Aubrey 
Beardsley.     i6mo.     Cloth.     Price,  $i.oo. 


Not  since  "The  Story  of  an  African  Farm"  was  written  has  any  woman  de- 
livered herself  of  so  stroni;,  so  forcible  a  bcjok.  —  Queen. 

Knotty  questions  in  sex  problems  are  dealt  with  in  these  brief  sketches.  They 
are  treated  boldly,  fearlessly,  perhaps  we  may  say  forcefully,  with  a  deep  pluiijje 
into  the  realities  of  life.  Tlie  colors  are  laid  in  masses  cm  tlie  canvas,  while 
passions,  temperaments,  and  sudden,  subtle  analyses  take  form  under  the  quick, 
siiarp  stroke.  Tliough  they  contain  a  vein  of  coarseness  and  touch  slightly  upon 
tabooed  subjects,  they  evidence  power  and  thought.  —  Public  Opinion. 

Indeed,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  "  Keynotes  ''  isthe  strongest  volume 
of  short  stories  that  the  year  has  produced.  Further,  we  would  wauer  a  good 
deal,  were  it  necessary,  that  CJeorge  Kgerton  is  a  noni-de-plume.  and  of  a  woman, 
too.  Why  is  it  that  so  many  women  hide  beneath  a  man's  name  when  they  enter 
the  field  of  authorship?  And  in  this  case  it  seems  doubly  foolish,  the  work  is  so 
intensely  strong.  .  .  . 

The  chief  characters  of  these  stories  are  women,  and  women  drawn  as  only  a 
woman  can  draw  word-pictures  of  her  own  sex.  The  subtlety  of  analysis  is 
wonderful,  direct  in  its  effectiveness,  unerring  in  its  truth,  and  stirring  in  its  reveal- 
ing power.  Truly,  no  one  but  a  woman  could  thus  throw  the  light  of  r  :lation 
upon  her  own  sex.  Man  does  not  understand  woman  as  does  the  author  of 
"Keynotes." 

The  vitality  of  the  stories,  too,  is  remarkable.  Life,  very  real  life,  is  pictured  ; 
life  full  of  joys  and  sorrows,  happinesses  and  heartbreaks,  courage  and  self-sacrifice  ; 
of  self-abnegation,  of  struggle,  of  victory.  The  characters  are  intense,  yet  not 
overdrawn  ;  the  experiences  are  dramatic,  in  one  sense  or  another,  and  yet  are 
never  hyper-emotional.  And  all  is  told  with  a  power  of  concentration  that  is 
simply  astonishing.  A  sentence  does  duty  for  a  chapter,  a  paragraph  for  a  picture 
of  years  of  experience. 

Indeed,  for  vigor,  originality,  forcefulness  of  expression,  and  completeness  of 
character  presentation,  "  Keynotes"  surpasses  any  recent  volume  of  short  fiction 
that  we  can  recall.  —  Times,  Boston. 

It  brings  a  new  quality  and  a  striking  new  force  into  the  literature  of  the 
hour.  —  The  Speaker. 

The  mind  that  conceived  "  Keynotes  "  is  so  strong  and  original  that  one  will 
look  with  deep  interest  for  the  successors  of  this  first  book,  at  once  powerful  and 
appealingly  feminine.  —  Irish  Independent. 


Sold  by  all  hookacUers.    Mailed,  post-paid,  on  receipt 
^f  price  by  the  Publishers^ 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Boston,  Mass. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON'S  WORKS. 


I  of  the 

Ine  will 
lul  and 


\cei/>i 


ASS. 


TRAVELS   WITH   A    DONKEY   IN   THE   CEVENNES. 


With  a  Frontispiece    Illustration   by  Walier   Crane. 
cover,  50  tents.)     lOmo.     #1.00. 

Mr.  Stevenson's  journey  in  tlie  Ceveiines 
is  a  bright  and  amusing  book  for  sununer 
reading.  'I'lie  author  set  out  alone,  on 
foot,  for  a  twelve  days'  journey  over  tlie 
mountains,  with  a  donkey  to  carry  his  lug- 


( Taper 


gage.  He  was  deplorably  ignorant,  neither 
knowing  bow  to  pack  his  load  nor  drive  liis 
donkey;  and  his  early  experience  forms  a 
ridiculous  record  of  disaster.  —  Viovidence 
Journal, 


AN    INLAND  VOYAGE.     i6mo.     $1.00. 


Unlike  Captain  Macgrec;or,  of  "  Rob 
Roy  "  fame,  Mr.  Stevenson  does  not  make 
canoeing  itself  his  main  theme,  out  de- 
lights in  charming  bits  of  description  that, 
in  their  clo>e  attention  to  picturesciue 
detail,  remind  one  of  the  work  of  a  skilled 
"genre  "  painter.  Nor  does  he  hesitate, 
from  time  to  time,  to  diverge  altogether 
from  his  immediate  subject,  and  to  indulge 
in  a  strain  of  gently  humorous  reflection 


that  furnishes  .some  of  the  pleasantest  pas- 
sages of  tlie  book.  ...  In  a  modest  and 
C|uiet  way,  Mr.  Stevenson's  book  is  one  of 
the  very  best  of  the  year  for  summer  read- 
ing. 'I'jie  volume  has  a  very  neat  design 
for  the  cover,  wiiii  a  faiicilnl  picture  of  the 
"Aretluisa"  and  "Cigarette,"  the  canoes 
of  the  author  and  his  companion.  —  Good 
Literature. 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS.     With  a  Frontispiece 


by  Walikr  Cr.\nr.     lumo. 

Mr.  .Stevenson  is  an  invalid,  and  in 
searcli  of  health  he  went  to  Mount  Saint 
Helena,  in  California,  and  high  up  in  its 
sides  took  possession  of  a  miner's  cabin 
fast  falling  to  ruin,  —  one  of  the  few  rem- 
nants of  the  abandoned  mining  village  of 
Silverado.  There,  with  his  wife  and  a 
single  servant,  considerable  time  was  spent. 
The  interest  of  the  book  centred  in  the 

TREASURE  ISLAND.  A  Story  of  Pirates  and  the  Spanish 
Main.  With  28  Illu.strations.  121110.  (Paper  covers,  50  cents.) 
$1.25.     Cheaper  etUtion.     i6mo.     %\.oo. 


$1.00. 

granhic  style  and  keen  observation  of  the 
author.  He  has  the  jxiwcr  of  descriliing 
places  and  characters  with  such  vividness 
that  you  seem  to  have  made  personal 
acc|uaintance  with  both  ...  Mr  Steven- 
son's racy  narrative  brings  many  phases  of 
life  upon  the  western  coast  before  one  with 
strikmg  power  and  captivating  gr.ice.  — 
New  York  World. 


At  a  time  when  the  books  of  Mayne 
Reid,  r>a]lantyne,  and  Kingston  are  taking 
their  places  on  the  shelves  to  wliich  weli- 
thumbed  volumes  are  relegated,  it  will  be 
with  especial  delight  that  hoy  readers  wel- 
come a  new  writer  in  the  literature  of  ad- 
venture- In  "Treasure  Island,"  Robert 
Louis  .Stevenson  takes  a  new  de[iartiire, 
and  writes  one  of  the  joUiest,  most  read- 
able, wide-awake  tales  of  sea  life  that  have 
set  the  blood  tingling  in  the  veins  of  the 
boys  of  at  least  the  present  generation.  It 
is  decidedly  of  the  exciting  order  of  stories, 
yet  not  of  the  unhealthily  sensational.     It 

PRINCE   OTTO.     A  Romance.     i6mo.     $1.00. 


details  the  stirring  adventures  of  an  Eng- 
lish crew  in  their  search  for  the  immense 
treasure  secreted  by  a  pirate  captain,  and 
it  ctrtainly  lias  not  a  dull  page  in  it.  \'et 
the  author  has  contrived  to  keep  the  sym- 
pathy (,n  the  side  of  virtue  and  honestv, 
and  throw  upon  the  pirates  that  odium  and 
detestation  which  their  nefarious  courses 
deserve  ;  and  the  b<,ok  is  one  Iieartily  to 
be  commended  to  any  sturdy,  wholesome 
lad  who  is  tbnd  of  the  smell  of  the  brine 
and  the  tang  of  sailor  speech  in  his  read- 
ing.—  Boston  Conner. 


Whatever  Mr.  Stevenson  writes  is  sure 
to  be  interesting  and  even  absorbing;  and 
to  this  "  Prince  Otto  "  is  no  exception.  It 
is  a  graceful  and  unusual  romance,  full  of 
surprises,  full  of  that  individuality  which 


is  so  charming  in  every  page  this  aiithoi 
has  publislied,  and  so  unhackneyed  thai 
one  knows  not  what  to  expect  from  any 
one  paragraph  to  the  next.  —  Bostoti 
Courier. 


\old  everywhere. 


Postpaid  l>y  Pnblis/iers, 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Boston, 


Afr.  Cieorc;e  Meredith  is  tht  greatest  liHghsh  novelist  living;  He  is 
frolhilily  the  greatest  novelist  of  our  time,  lie  is  a  man  0/ genius,  a 
literary  artist,  and  truly  a  great  writer.  —  The  Beacon. 


J 


\'^\^ 


1 


^ 


m 


GEORGE  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 


TITLES. 


THE   ORDEAL   OF   R'CHAnD 

FEVEREL. 
EVAN    HARRINGTON. 
HARRY   RICHMOND. 
SANDRA    BELLONI. 
VITTORIA. 


RHODA   FLEMING. 
BEAUCHAMP'8   CAREER. 
THE    EGOIST. 

DIANA  OF  THE   CR0SSWAY8. 
THE   SHAVING   OF  SHAGPAT, 
AND    FARINA. 


ONE  OF  OUR  CONQUe-RORS.     THE   TRAGIC    COMEDIANS. 


SOME     PRESS     NOTICES. 

Mr.  Mereditli's  novels  are  an  intellectual  tonic.  'I'liey  are  tlie  preat,  and  in- 
deed, we  may  say,  tliey  are  the  only  novels  of  any  living  autlior  wliich  dfser\e  to 
be  called  great.  They  will  take  the  same  high  and  permanent  rank  that  is  as- 
signed to  the  novels  of  George  Eliot  and  (jeorge  Sand.  They  are  deeper  in 
intellectual  power  than  Dickens,  while  they  have  less  of  his  dramatizations.  Tiiey 
are  an  intellectual  mine,  and  will  repay  careful  study.  —  Boston  Traveller. 

Tlie  London  "Athenaeum"'  says  of  "Diana  of  the  Crossways":  "It  is  a 
study  of  character,  and  it  is  also  a  study  of  emotion  ;  it  is  a  picture  of  fact  and  of 
the  world,  and  it  is  touched  with  generous  romance  ;  it  is  rich  in  kindly  comedy, 
and  it  abounds  in  natural  passion  ;  it  sets  forth  a  .'^election  of  many  liuman  ele- 
ments, and  it  is  joyful  and  sorrowful,  wholesome  with  laughter  and  fruitful  of  tears 
as  life  itself." 

Mr.  Meredith's  novels  certainly  have  the  qualities  which  we  marked  as  essen« 
tial  to  permanent  literature.  They  can  set  before  you  i)ictures  of  hajipy  love,  or 
of  youth  and  nature  that  can  never  be  forgotten  ;  scenes  that  flash  before  your 
eyes  when  your  thoughts  are  elsewhere.  .  .  .  Whoever  reads  Mr.  Meredith  does 
not  waste  his  time.  He  is  in  good  companv,  among  gentlemen  and  ladies  ; 
above  all,   in  the  company  of  a    Genius. — Daily  News. 

Genius  of  a  truly  original  and  spontaneous  k'nd  shines  in  every  one  of  these 
books;  of  fancy  there  is  on'ytoo  much,  perhaps;  with  healthy  benevolent  sym- 
pathy they  abound ;  and  if  there  exists  any  greater  master  of  his  native  tongue 
than  Mr.  Meredith,  we  have  yet  to  hear  of  the  gentleman's  name.  — St.  James's 
Gazette. 

It  was  not  until  1S59,  when  he  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty-two,  that  he  pro- 
duced "  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,"  his  first  mature  novel,  charged  to  the 
brim  witli  earnestness,  wit,  strength  of  conception.  Meredith's  stories  generally 
end  happily;  but  this  one  is  profoundly  tragic.  I  have  read  many  of  his  chapters 
without  being  moved,  even  when  the  situation  in  itself  must  theoretically  be  ac- 
knowledged an  affecting  one.  Hut  it  seems  to  me  that  the  heart  which  is  not 
touched,  and  the  eyes  I'.iat  do  not  become  moist,  in  the  reading  of  the  last  portions 
of  "  Richard  Feverel "  must  be  indurated  with  a  glaze  of  indifference  which  is 
not  to  be  envied. — G.  P.  Lathrop,  in  Atlantic  Monthly. 


12  Volumes,  English  Edition,  uncut,  i2mo.     Price,  $2.00. 

12  Volumes,  English  Edition,  half  calf.      Extra,  $30.00  the  set. 

12  Volumes,  Popular  American  Edition,  i6mo,  cloth.      Price,  $i.5a 


ROBERTS    BROTHERS,    Publishers. 

BOSTON,    MASS. 


in<ing;  lie  is 
ui  of  genius,  a 
N. 


)VELS. 


ARKER. 

R0SSWAY8. 
-   SHAQPAT, 

VIEDIAN8. 


le  preaf,  niul  in- 
\liich  dt-serve  to 
rank  tliat  is  as- 
y  are  deeper  in 
itizatioiis.  Tliey 
rave  Her. 

ays  "  :  "  It  is  a 
ire  of  fact  and  of 
I  kindly  coniedvi 
lany  liunian  ele- 
i  fruitful  of  tears 

narked  as  essen- 
if  happy  love,  or 
lash  before  your 
■.  Meredith  doet 
in    and    ladies  ; 

ery  one  of  these 
benevolent  sym- 
is  native  tongue 
.  —  St.  Jameses 

wo,  that  he  pro- 
charged  to  the 
stories  generally 
y  of  his  chapters 
loretically  be  ac- 
irt  which  is  not 
the  last  portions 
ference  which  is 


o. 

the  set. 

Price,  $i.5a 


!rs, 


